We hope the War on Poetry,
like so many excellent crusades,
will drive up the price
of our prohibited commodity
while keeping it from distribution through sad
state-funded store-fronts.

Then, with luck,
a professional class of smugglers, bootleggers and sneaks
may rise in the market
to bring us only the best shit.

Bright-eyed then, in another dawn, we may shift to the streets
from our molten language dens,
with tongues
that pivot from fresh-forged brains
to loft a new day's codes
into the civic winds,
preciptating
as acidic beads of sweaty nectar along the vinyl-seamed corridors
of counselors, canisters, jackboots and shopping carts
the biege reificiation
each world class day
in the city
requires.

That's how
two jokes ahead of our beat
we become the best police

and when our movie wins awards
the neighborhood squints
to the rhythm
of our flashing blue twilight
and Mudede will sing O'Reilly
and The Stranger will be our Fox.

When did our Space Needle
become obscured
by that five hundred foot woman?

Poetry is direct.

--tiny ziploc
found in
teletubby park, sealthtle