I'm running from a mob carrying "Racists for Hillary" signs. I'm an old fart now & carry a rucksack over my shoulders but I go to the gym & manage to outdistance the beer bellies. I run into a field of cigaret butts but I leave the worn path. soon I discover a carpet of wild flowers. invitation of blue petals summons me to my knees. I unburden the rucksack & spread its contents among the flowers.
where to begin? here is the 2nd haynaku anthology & there a gentle stack of Faux chaps. Jeff Beam undresses on his pages. another naked man -- Tom Beckett -- slides down a question mark. I gather poems to my chest. some incise the flesh but I don't care. sun will cauterize skin already dark with brandings from poets long dead.
my year of losses continues. all I can do is read & write savor mango flavor & image of Sal Mineo in tighty whiteys. I finish my second cup of sumatra & plot the coming hours.