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The Air Was Wild
I write for money. It's my blood.
My friend ran away with the guy
Who stole my identity. I'm trying
To look at it from my point of view
Tho the soul resumes its teachings. Candles
Out, and there's pie for the asking, and grace
To be white boats opposing innocence.
The real story is you and money.
You can't count the coin fast enough –
Seized by the global work of a lifetime,
Charm-free illuminating patterns entered
By a shower of gold coins –
And this was hot; actually it's
Hot and cool, small video screens
Of mist over water, a balloon floating
In a swimming pool, views down
Hallways of stairs cut apart and fronted
With music waking in hazy-brightness
Without memory of how you got there.
Where Do You
Put Pet Coupons?
A poem is a naked person, the force
through the green fuse to drive flowers.
Some people say I am a poet.
A hero is someone who drives my green age;
who understands the responsibility that comes
within roots of trees.
The fallen blood shall calm her sores.
I have dined with kings
And now I'm dumb to tell the crooked rose
I've been offered wings.
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
And I've never been too impressed.
Poems on this page © Jack Kimball 2005-2006 Jack Kimball edits Faux Press and blogs at
pantaloons.blogspot.com. He lives near Boston.
