her words fell on the paper
like racoon garbage driven out onto
the streets
separate now from its insecure
and overflown
receptacle
there’s a kind of freedom there
in the fetid way that a spoiled
rag
festers on top of a bitumen strip
folded in on itself like a
dead origami rose,
sat with satin stains of beige and cherry
swirls,
no longer conscribed to the over-arching narrative
no
longer eligible for reprieve
free: to be taken;
out of
context
free to be; a reminder
that somebody needs to clean up
this
mess
in any utopia, there is
a farm hand who would rather be a
dreadnought
a prison guard who enjoys the night shift
a grave
digger who works weekends
tell me
do you know when enough is a lot?
do you know how a
bleeding heart clots?
see, the sad truth is
every writer needs an editor
someone
who can scrub cat piss
out of a blanket statement
someone who
knows better
than to say what
they mean
a poem is an olive
that must be soaked in a bath of lye
to be
cured from the natural
taste of its creator