I have read and published some of my old poems
when the world was mint fresh and I believed in the lady in the lake, I saw her swim a moonlit night
know I know she is not there, but a product of my
Sheep, they are dumb, think the pastor is a friend and
his dog means well and even smells like an ewe but its
fur is useless and full of ticks, can't eat grass to feed
itself forever pestering the pastor wanting to show off
when barking at the flock
The sheep and the landscape are equally old seen in
paintings of rustic art, which the pastor's wife excels at
and tries to sell on Sunday after church, which the other
pastor, the one who looks after human flock who think
he is nice but hates them.
Sheep no nothing of democracy, or security they prefer to be fenced in and only get nervous for a second when one of them is called to serve humans' need for meat as they can't count if there were 500 of them or 499 and they grazing go on and on.
How lonely I have become among the olive trees
since my dog died, I buried her in dark soil but dug her up, she is a skeleton in a black plastic liner in the back seat of the car, it stops me from feeling lonely when
visiting the local whore.
The road I drive on my way to the bar has been asphalted, flowers, by the roadside wilt covered in asphalt spray by careless workmen who inhale warm asphalt when not smoking self-rolled cigarettes
and waiting for the day to end