Alphabet Whirl
for T.L.C.

small pussy girl
to push up the hill
to get along with
to push off the train
off a train of thought

poetry she aborts
artistic wastage
she’s engaged in

ink washing away, off pages
not written on

river of words not yet formed
alphabet she has to offer like soup
and she’s not in the kitchen cooking
dishing up, dishing out, bowls full,
morsels with hot homemade bread

throw her pussy in too, to season it
to make it delicious

so little to delight in
from her hands and from her mind

she fit her behind cut, she fit a cut hip
for her output, her attitude
her involvement in art

fighter in the ring
without a punch to show
or to throw

I don’t pull punches
I let poetry flow

even as she must
from month to month

red river, red sea
why does her art not have
as reliable a rhythm


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
11:35 a.m. 01.03.08