Oil from Pandora’s box
smothers our mother world,
and pop goes the Beezeal
Bub, you’ve got problems:
because —
frothy fickle freeways
push California outbound into
a grass land of otters chomping
into illusory hippies, swimming into sunsets,
encapsulating bunnies sniffing glue.
Moldy hibiscus blossoms waft no scents
of pernicious nonsense
into the empty mind of a poet.
Who’s to know it all, silly,
stuff that bounds around
the corner drugstore as candy
is dandier than pots of flowers
in the grand lexicon
of an exhausted breath.
Kent Bowker
4/1/2012
I see an environmentalist, but as a poet, you seldom stray too far from our “ultimate end.”