I haven't written a new poem in a month--the wheels in my head are on a completely different gear now that I'm stuck in a long fiction. Of course, some might argue that I've been stuck in a long fiction all along.
Here's a poem from last year's disaster series, in honor of Sen. Ted Stevens, whose trial began last week, or last month or sometime. If you have to know specifics, I'll have my people look it up and get back to you. Cause that's how they do it up north.
People laughed when that old fuck called it all
“A series of tubes.” I even had a t-shirt making fun of him.
It’s in rags now. There goes the last connection.
But when pieces started crashing, it really was like tubes,
Like we were miners trapped in tunnels, cut off from everyone,
And me trying everything to fix it, and everyone cursing me,
Then just staring up at me, quiet now, thinking
“What if he can’t get us out of here?”