The Problem Is Looking Down

Radios split open my dream. Before the intervention, behind a mansion, fierce of any inner fire. So rusty chickens won't go under even when it rains.

Silt sparkles in rivers less than rips and whistle. Below tobacco fields are still not planted. Six hot-dogs, three buns, many hungry protesters.

My mouth, old sweat sock, the lamp in the corner of the bar. Socialists and communists feel at home here so huzzah. I was dogs nosing through asparagus.

The coffee table with milk paint and stencils your mother gave us dying. Paper torn beneath a pine tree so empty. Nearby old tires barn smell in sun.

Ferns slick with night rain will do dart back. Losing my banister down four stairs and right knee. Moonlight between spokes, puddles.

Merely public crucifixions with local anesthesia. These things are the problem between dragging tail feathers. The problem is looking down is no solution.

And: this life is no bargain. I'm not the only one.