Pastoral: an imitation

for Kurt Cobain

The answering machine shatters my concentration
The guns click and my palms break off on the keys.

I don't know where my words come from anymore.
I just speak and my unconscious lashes out

across my shimmering green screen. Then,
I close the windows. If only poems didn't offend,

if only I could mute what I am screaming. If only
we could meet where the grass in pungent and sweet

and just sit there whispering, the one lone oak tree
as shade. One by one my authors appear on the bank

as I push away, my oars as wings, and I can barely
breathe I'm so blown by the dazzle in mine eyes.

_______
arcadia