everyone in Berkeley fancies themself a poet. A while back I was walking in Golden Gate park with my best friend. There was a college age guy who was obviously trying to sell his poems (for donations). He casually tossed his hay-filled white-boy dreadlocks away from his face and asked "do you like poetry?" and before Shaggy could answer I very firmly answered "No." and continued to walk my confused friend forward. They don't try to sell you poetry on the streets of LA.
Right now I am listening to poets on the radio (West coast live) and because I could write crap like what I'm hearing. I submit the following poem in honor of National bad poetry month.
Oh sad yellow sign
if the heart has a number to break with
it must be four-o-nine.
From the thin black veil of history
there must be a man with soot covered clothes
and oily hands
crying
over the man
in the sharp, grey, wool, tailored, pinstripe, designer, suit
with the gleam of hope and sailboats and saliene solution
in his eyes and the number
four-oh-nine
in his
lint filled, dry cleaned,
pocket
next to the change purse
of
his
soul.
(pause) (pause)
--Thank You.
