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A Pity Shaved Is A Kitty Yearned (from Ruthless Grip Poems)
If I'm 70% water
and 30% dust mites,
how am I talking to you?
I go to a poem to forsake my narrative thirst.
The newsman is made up like a tart.
Give me a fever long enough
and a place to stand
and I'll move the world.
This old hare she's got me on the moon.
I'm praying to the Devil.
Saint Annie waits for you in the House of Song.
I'm sick of my heart aching
from the moment I wake up
till the moment I fall asleep.
I thought I would have hit bottom by now --
but I'm still falling.
This poem appears in the 2004 Anthology
View all poems by Chris Toll