I rebuke the concept of poem as child
with horrible, painful birth. Oh, the stories!
But how random is life;
taking a cab to the Golden Gate Bridge,
searching for the right bunker. Random!
He gave what I can only assume was
a guarded performance—
the right combination of seductive, pop,
nerviness, pause, and articulation (he had a cold,
kept sniffling).
This isn’t difficult. Embrace life’s simplicity. The cars
make their individual noises, one by one, up the hill.
“First rape, last rape,” thinks Viridiana.
Up every hill.
