the poet takes his place in the actual world

fuck this idea of
poetry reaching back to
embrace the past

i will not worship
the martyred or the immortal

it’s enough to be stuck in
this town of defeated old men
as they shuffle aimlessly
up and down anonymous streets

it’s enough to watch the
factories burn

and i have driven in every direction
and i have seen nothing but
more of the same
and i am only waiting for the news
that reagan is dead

i am only waiting to hear
from a friend
who hasn’t written in a decade
that all is forgiven

and i have a job that will never be
anything worth describing
and i have a son who will someday

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