“It seemed good, the clotted darkness that came everyday.” John Ashberry
and what was, or shall we say--- is, so fucking good
about the coagulated black smudge on the teapot thrung
or flung on the peat moss of the Scotsman’s small forested
backyard smidgen of space, I queried the stumbled poet down
on his knees and luck, as we lumbered into the spout of far-fetched
forsaken verse and what is worse, thought we knew what was being said,
within reason, of course….
the pillars of ante-bellum mansions
were all tumbling
while the stomachs of writers
were rumbling
with undigested slivers of night..
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