THIS

This muddy mullet morning
when my boy blew on
about his brand new sneakers
chewed by the puppy that barfed
on my azure oriental-
why not the landlord's pea
green wall-to-wall? Her pie
assortments are on me when I
shelled out twenty-five clams to bail
her from the pound this week?
My man claimed he let me
win at poker last night
(a straight don't beat four?)
so I won't enjoy doing his dishes-
Forget the sun, it was frosted
when I put out the curdling
mongrel, squoze O.J. from the flea
market juicer, went back to bed
wondering, reading Ginsberg,
John Woods, Frank O'Hara - why
they should have more poetic
risings.

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