You’re the captain
Of team obvious—
A necessary job:
Reduces the obviating
Tendencies of the
Upper echelons, allows you
Impunity to stare
At hot blonds, consume more
Than you deserve. I’ve got
To go try and find
Demeter Whispered Die Meter!
Nowhere But Here To Get To
Not a constant
No bland nor time for
Jaded yet I am—
I have so many
Things and so
Few basic verbs—
Between when I’m
Ranging being or dead to
I like being
“Out of it” but partly
Fear this stance—
Is fighting for.
I don’t want to read the things
Nor the script of not—what brings
Many’s my goal. The dark blue
Sky vasts through
Out the window; how far is
An owl hits—
Hooks—bleeds—swifts home—hungry chicks.
The earth’s pap
Someone ruthlessly tap-taps
And I slap
Money down—night caps.
What’s the etymology of albumen? An advanced answer is a
Question. The ocean view versus garden pondered
By someone who can afford either.
Is there a truest I in this body I’m unaware of?
I suspect an answer will be in love—lies to itself it likes sleeping—dreaming
Wagons loaded with watermelons, their flesh shot through with arsenic. Someone
Whispers in a language I didn’t know but understood, and took her to get a beer but she
Got coke and demurred to barely being there; we couldn’t talk; she bowed and left into
The third pull of my second bottle—warmer than the first but me less thirsty. A hot
Breeze quickens my emerging buzz—the sunset seems amniotic; birds chirp in
The branches of trees like people frolicking at the beach—simile as affirmation of difference;
I’m suspicious of paradox—by degrees which don’t complete a circle.
I’ve never seen one but plane trees erected my emotion. When I’ve Looked into the ocean
I’ve never thought a grave; I have felt blood runs my brain: pulses
Bob Marley’s "Stranger on the shore," littered with rubber-sandals, tennis shoes,
Lighters, Batteries, bottles.
Adam Strauss lives in Las Vegas. He adores the poetry of George Herbert and would love a career writing pop songs.