There they are again
in the patchy grass handing cigarettes back and forth
reciting slams. Recognizing the world
for its rhyme scheme. Sure
they look like loiterers but that assumes
There is cunning and philosophy. What else
could they be
than wanderers on the hottest day, no means
to access the river?
The air conditioner in the public library has fritzed and
penniless for stores close in on them.
One day they’d have been apprentices and trades
for their fingers learning
to be smiths. But here
we raise poets
letting them smoke away on our lawns wallowing
in the void of culture. It is their American dream
to want nothing of their country but live unasked
They have learned our stories
and want no part in creating more.
Here we raise guerrillas.