Why is it after perusing a new zine of contemporary poetry, even a good one, or one whose poetics i feel i ought to endorse: in am haggard & dismayed, as if i were indeed closer in spirit to a mute homeless person dwelling under a bridge, than to any of these clever writers; & as little served? Am i so needy--or but deafened by the gnashing of the gears?

"Plunder"

1.
hunting with the angels
of what is not yet rain
insane
simplifications
a bronze of a wild boar

Oregon Pinot Noirs
my crescent-shaped
scintillating lights float
like alarming downloads
i never requested

is this day
the real website
or some phishing scheme

2.
miles in these shoes
they melt away
like dreams
like the precise half-spiral
of the clouds over there
like a poem
when there is nothing to write with
in the vicious miles of commuting
more often standing still than not


One accedes to wastefulness, as a parent is worn down by the wheedling of a child.