I Don’t Get Paid Enough to Read This Kind of Shit

for kind teacher Allen Ginsberg


Two pair black leather

shoes lined up untied on turquoise rug under

a pine coffee table


Who is this nameless

woman? Tell me or fuck

you! I don’t want to read

your poems

Crooked smile



Purple shocks atop pale green stems

in depression-glass vase next to a ‘96 Bombay Gin

with rolled cover, Poems for

the Millennium, and “here”

penciled down to eight lines

at this stranger’s table


there’s so much

I don’t know about you

clouds press mountains

to the sky    slopes

dotted with blossoms

on a grey log overgrown

with grass we decide

sitting there in the wind

And I still have annotated original

safe in cabinet by desk


Diet Squirt

at his square table, manila

folders stuffed with dittoes, four days of

New York Times stacked by open porch door


I remember his grey mechanical pencil


I don’t get paid enough

to read this kind of shit he says

with crooked smile, I respond

can I use that quote on the back

of my first book?

Published by pedalpoet

Poet, writer, and songwriter living in Seattle, WA

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