Poem Number Two.

Alright, Onstad, you pudknocker. I know you've been checking this site every hour waiting for my next poem to drop. Here it is, dirtcrap. Boy, you really need to learn how to pick your battles, don't you? --> :) <--

- - -

Even In Michigan

Tamara calls to her mother
across the room.
The air
the reek
filthy carpet
cigarettes
humid.

Tamara is five.
Her mother
nineteen.
Nineteen.
The girl has no clue
Across the room;
dead;
her mother.

The poison from the hand
of the corner crack man.
Threw a clot;
lost a lot.
Thrombosis
is a cruel
Mistress.

- - -

This poem is EXTREMELY moving and another example of my devastating work using mother/child imagery. Do you think you can keep up, Onstad? You DUMBASS?!

Oh, there's more where this came from. My journal is as deep as the waters of the disenfranchised. I won't be letting up anytime soon.

Pick your battles, dirtcrap.