Poor Solomon Grundy. Half clean.
A person of extremes.
In that way we are like. We’re like my country.
My country. You say, my country. Like my country
I am obsessing on my past, and none of it is living up to its concept.
Like,
I’m not what I say I am.
I tell you I am learning to skin cats. You say that thing about old dogs?
You say I say a lot.
Meaning, you say, I talk too much.
You say a lot that’s been said.
I’m desperate to say any one thing
that’s been unsaid.
I’ve no need for clothes,
dropping them in front of the television.
While the dogs curl into them
I remove old pieces of me
spread them on the kitchen table
with the sprouts I’ve started for spring
that will die as I wait to be inspired to plant.
I am like My Country
America, beer, bees, bird, birds, bummer, canyon, cars, chef, coffee, cook, cooking, death, desert, desperate, desperation, discomfort, drink, drugs, drugs and alcohol, drunk, ease, fallout, food, furniture, gender, happiness, hiking, home, hope, humans, husband, infertility, jail, kicked out, kids, lessons, love, lovers, lust, man, marriage, men, messy, naked, nature, nude, object, one night stand, our time, our town, peace, people, poem, Poems, poet, poetry, poets, power, punk, punk rock, Review, river, robin, route 66, sadness, scorpions, secrets, sex, sheep, shit, small towns, spiders, suicide, symbols, the west, time, trains, truth, Up all night, voyeur, vulnerability, vulnerable, war, work, workers, working, writing
About Me
A poet-chef living in Denver, Co. I use the orange Aquafresh toothpaste, off brand mouthwash, and those little floss picks.
Daniel E Haislet 
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