The B-side of poetry wakes in the undergrowth of the better known
oak in someones front yard, as the neighborhood children play around in
the streets, around the car, and you've told them a million times
not to play around the car. The B-side rolls around with the moss
while the kids play. It is totally abandoned in favor for nuts
and broad deciduous leaves. It is totally abandoned for: "So
much depends upon. . ."
Get away from my GODDAMN car, you little motherfuckers!
The B-side of poetry shrugs against the roots and black bark of a
mighty oak. Now the neighborhood children are playing with a
ball. After you've yelled at them? Where are their parents?
The oak groans and shifts in time to say: "The apparition of these faces. . ."
I'm calling the FUCKING police on your asses!
The B-side of poetry goes back to sleep.