FLIPPING THE BIRD, NIGHT TIME

Every night they loiter near your pleasure,
standing behind the locals, releasing every local's
toes okay? Currently doing or having done.

Nothing near you isn't quiet. Nothing near you isn't
quiet nor oatmeal, pin nor naptime, every
two of your children under our feet.

No one is tearing a suitback, razoring
brand-new denim, biting the hood of a car,
smashing those ideas exhibiting fixity.

No-one is accomplishing sneezes no-place,
lacking single pepperpots near tissues
lacking sawdust, electric static, nose-harps.

Some dude and his daughter ignore the hangglider.
A stock analyst forgets the fixed earth.
The pornographer thinks: remove your anklets. Stop.

You just missed the locals' ideas, ideas
concave and rough, blabbered or blogged,
ideas whazzat? What'd he say?

You parallel football fields and plains, erase
the way of no-one and the locals, who just thought
you wanted to taste the local main course.

You forgot there's nothing worse on the football field.
They want to lose that person for which danger
skips away like the great visual hooferrah.

Obfuscate this: some get born at night.
Sneeze toward places, the unborn left us there,
which uninstalled shoe cleats, lowered the flags,

smothered the polystyrene and the arugula, broke
tile after tile the dingy floors
you'd never slop and then rest outside of .

Flip the bird for complacence, flip the bird nightly.
Flip the bird for some computer printout,
the duh, I'm stupid at chemistry labs.

No one dies by "Aim for the highest"
Locals say "First honesty, then industry,
then concentration." Who said the weakest deed was hate?

Hate next to divorce, work buddies, communists,
hate obscuring the shrinking asphalt of night
hate with desire to sign-on with compliments.

Yesterday's dull fizz, that summer dirt
no idea wont break, no paragraph stopped.
Near the center, smack dab in the middle,

flip the bird, crawling backwards from the night.



http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20545