Treasure Island

A.j. Binash

(04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

Sometimes I Feel Helpless. How Wistful


Afternoon rain
Declares Spring.

Winter dies.

Documented
In the whistling
Tire rotations,
Of anywhere USA.

At the bus-stop.
A police officer
Reflects their brake lights
In a mud-puddle.

And down the street
I find a rainbow
In a puddle of gasoline.

Near the entrance
Of the gas station,
A meth-head scratches their pock marks.
They adjust their genitals
And ask:
“Hey man...my car ran out of gas
Can you spare some change?
I need to get home.”

I haven't eaten all day.
“**** off. I am hungry.”

The porcelain throne
Has excrement
Surrounding the bowl.
Accentuating the shape
Like contour lines.

I add some class
And decorate it
In golden sprinkles.

Watch a fortune
Flush,
Under the blinking shadows
Caused by a dying florescent bulb.

I walk outside,
Feel around in my pocket.
There's a tiny copy
Of Whitman's
Leaves of Grass.
I suspect
That by osmosis
I can live out
The verses.

But Whitman
Never predicted
It would get this bad.

Submitted: Thursday, March 27, 2014
Edited: Friday, March 28, 2014

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Topic(s): nature

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