Like Vice, Or Verse

The Railroad

Caused generations of deaf poets

And now all poets are deaf

To red-light doorbells

Coddling their precious creations

I type standing up

Nipple in my teeth

Pulling, cinching, pink knot

Screaming bumblebee earplugs

Feet

Fused to the floorboards with bullfrog spears

Backwards, looking over my shoulder

Two hot briquettes in codpiece

The temperature at which

Poets burn

Late at night

In front of your house

I write poetry on the street with my ass

Pure, concrete

Numbing the pain that soils

Any true pacifist

Who needs the railroad knocking

Life senseless?

Poetry is early retirement without pension

Or quiet dignity of gold pocket watch

A concession that real life

Isn’t worth the paper it’s splattered on

Unless you feel something worth

Thinking about

Like vice

Or verse

And now you know

False bravado comes in three beautiful colors

Brown