04-27-2014, 04:06 AM
I'll wear Stockton street like the robe of many colors and
no one will speak to me.
I'd like to discard the disgust of my generation.
I find my friends squeezing honesty into tubes
to sell in the marketplace. Because
truth is too painful to let alone.
I must shuffle it around, carve into it, I must twist it like clay.
I must make it myself out of litter, urine, and tongues.
I must slap to sense the sky that won't talk.
Stuff newspapers into mouths of strangers.
That section has the strongest bits. I don't have anything to say about how to shape that block of words, if only you could make the rest of the poem better and have it all come together.
no one will speak to me.
I'd like to discard the disgust of my generation.
I find my friends squeezing honesty into tubes
to sell in the marketplace. Because
truth is too painful to let alone.
I must shuffle it around, carve into it, I must twist it like clay.
I must make it myself out of litter, urine, and tongues.
I must slap to sense the sky that won't talk.
Stuff newspapers into mouths of strangers.
That section has the strongest bits. I don't have anything to say about how to shape that block of words, if only you could make the rest of the poem better and have it all come together.