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Poetry Zine, Richmond, VA
edgy, gutsy, turgid writing for the naughty aughties
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JIMMY WARNER DESIGN,
Black Hole Whose Music
Iím hearing Godís wind instrument,
Defeat like gateway drugs on lips.
Whatís wrong with the streets, the
Umbrella retreats with shaking hips.
Iíve lost the train of thought, heavy
Poets in their gravity wells unable to
Escape frozen stance and collapse.
Lost structures choked by cravings
Growing bigger on longer lines of
Suburban traffic junkies, bat from
Hell driven, rat-like belligerent, an
Electric car delusion sounding its
Rhythm of life, filtering down from
The whiskered breath of wise cats.
No longer lulled by liquor and lyrics
Rhymed on the same vibe, the soul
Finds new vents, bent on a blue jag.
The witness at the back of the line
Is letting off steam, carbon dioxide,
Methane, clouding all the issues he
Knows he has the right to entertain.
There is no humming sound from a
black hole whose music can't escape;
No Hawking speak gassing out in a
Bizarre blue jet of revelationís timing.
Little Toot is under arrest, big ships
All messed up, the harbor getting too
Dark to see past the next stevedore.
Iguanodon-mobile with science bent
over a barrel of crude understanding -
Everyone is demanding a taste of the
Good life before it runs out, trained on
What to expect but not whatís coming.
The named storms are ready, the sea
And the waves drowning the pumps.
Photo by Eugene Brown
Copyright Jimmy Warner, 2011
6 E Broad St.
BEND YOUR EAR archived
1 thru 23
Kyoti's Rocky Mountain Reader
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2000 - 2008