Hey guys, I've been going through ups and downs lately in what exactly I want out of my poetry. Call it a long overdue period of artistic growth/wandering/whatever. Here's a poem from a new series, then. Enjoy!
spies in the field: gilded
it is we who don masks
and take
away the cigarettes from
a parlor
and suggest a sip of coffee with
a dark glance.
the half-moon
circles under a waitress’
eyes
is not enough to riot.
we think of overturning our
secret disguise and go around bragging.
a car upturns down the boulevard
and the city reminds us
that
the holy grail is hidden in its
guts,
and pulsating even,
and screaming even.
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