i haven't yet given up on poems
though they keep on teasing me
like i am right back in grade three
devouring a knuckle sandwich

fingers barely suffice
to count the words i have to write with
writing in anger or in bliss
while urine fills the bladder swiftly

so many monsters roam the streets
that at the core are quiet, petite
in relative to the summer heat
that is out there for the breathing

and they provide a bit of meaning
to words that haven't got a clue
self-organizing in super glue
of my super-egotistic innocence