i have misplaced anger

the sun is setting in the
east

    and you my dear,
looked so beautiful in the
lamp light
        expounding your
philosophies
          your
                  art theories
with which i can do
nothing but agree and
revel-

     you see:
             the brick
wall's intrinsic value
is itself
         and so as with
the people inside
                 with their
dirty faced children
and soiled hands from
too hard a day's work
                          turning
their rage-filled eyes
on me

and i am baffled
by the persistance
                    of
                      the printed
word made or like
the poet painted sculpted
in the gray cloud bursting
yellow in the evening setting
sun
    and irregular lines
perhaps distorting the
sparkle
         and horsedrawn
carriage in the allyway

(abstraction,
              that is-
distorting and subjecting
the dying trees to something
other than dying
                 brown terse
and crackling

                 my infected nose,
and industrial wastage
through my half open
brown framed windows
                      and
                translucent white
                curtains
                                it's brown branches
                                and flowers distorted
                                by the
                                    material
                                  patern
reflecting said sun and
misplaced anger
                at no one
in particular
                and so (by dynamic
         properties)
                           everyone


the amish walking a
jive walk
                hands in
pockets

Poetry Magazine