My cousin Mark, his mouth a jumble
Of broken word and spoken mic
Syllabic gleams between his humble
Chaotic teeth, his Eastern psych
Degree a background velvet curtain
In mind unwound, laid out, uncertain
Of what the world is asking of
The god no one believes in, love,
And love’s irascible homely cousin,
Lust, whose arrows break like lead
In pencils pressed against one’s head
But fly like roses by the dozen
Into the hearts of Spokane’s youth
To bloom in light and bomb in truth.
Mark Anderson
November 16, 2013 by at 9:55 am
There is so much going on in this poem, and it is all so good.
It’s about as clear as it can be, without being at all prosaic.
Thanks Angelico.
This poem is filled with great rhymes. Good stuff, old man.
Who’s calling whom old? You’ll soon be 49, Quin, which rhymes with cryin’.
Har! Yeah, the best rhyme yet.
I was thinking of our time at Neato Burrito in the midst of a small sea of twentysomethings, even teenagers, reciting our best. Which, I should add, didn’t mean our stuff was so much better. Sobering.
Good times!
Truly spoke. Happy almost birthday!
Sounds like an interesting cat. Good poem.