A Poem
Well, I've been writing poems for the last couple of weeks, and I wanted to share at least one. Well, I don't want to, but I feel like I should.
Front Porch in June
It's hot, like
the smell of Los Angeles
Synethesia,
the gift and the curse
Mexicans roll by
on booming wheels
showered
and clean
as thrift store porcelain.
Super Macho!
Testiculo del Toro!
It's quiet, except
when the train runs through.
Now, far off
Hammers
and wooden birds
CLACK! CLACK!
The grass is dying,
as it should
and I roast like St. Bernadette
calmly among flames.
Front Porch in June
It's hot, like
the smell of Los Angeles
Synethesia,
the gift and the curse
Mexicans roll by
on booming wheels
showered
and clean
as thrift store porcelain.
Super Macho!
Testiculo del Toro!
It's quiet, except
when the train runs through.
Now, far off
Hammers
and wooden birds
CLACK! CLACK!
The grass is dying,
as it should
and I roast like St. Bernadette
calmly among flames.