For Marty Baum

they said
they have no more to offer
so you died
on them
you up and died
without your healthcare

I hope they played the Beatles at your funeral

you were a true
literary hero of College Park

we would rock the mic
when there was no mic
then when there was no more roof
we read
we shouted (as usual)
over firetrucks passing
that could not stop us

we looked like dudes on
soap boxes but there

was no typical gospel

we blew joints up
and the dominion trip
was real

Squarely, Along

Napkin writing in a low lit bar. I find I can tear into short haiku moments under the air conditioning and charms. Look out for my penmarks. A depleted stock of ‘kins and their self worth is estimated high. Chances are, this could be worth repeating or printing, so I put down the worth in no said amount. It just feels right past what it’s like to feel curious. There are blocks of what we want, and tantrums too are box-like. Like me back! Is what I’m hoping for. See the ‘kins in squares are all military drills and the stacks run out before the pen does. I am introduced as a writer and then asked, “Do you have a theme?” I correct my introduction by “I do not have a clue,” knowing it’s the best clue into the unknown, and that this is, yes, the theme all along. How can you arrive at a true sum total? When the brain falls out there will be no more output. The heartbeat will stop looking at girls when I’m talking to you. The plan is to go on for some great chunk of time.

Version of Versions

there is the
version of me
grabbing keys and ready to go
then another
I sit and stare at the wall with you asking
if everything is all right so
I point and show you the wall
and you see what I mean
the version of me against odds
staring on in
defeating odds
being me