(Poem on a dare)

[this was penned by friend and ridiculously talented writer L.W. in 2006, somewhere in south central Minnesota, when I prodded her to do something that included twenty-five compound words and the specific combination of one of my all-time favorite combinations, "intransigent wont"...]
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Remember what The Who said about
a teenage wasteland? Don't cry, travel south. I don't understand,
anyway, why I'm always searching for clarity: life as empty as a baldhead,
hairlines already receded, reaching for a book of paperback poems at my bedside
bookmarked at the careless parts. I'll fishhook
nearby answers as though they're an intransigent wont-- all this knowing. I'll sit-up
with a headache, all ups and downs, the pain like the dull red of a darkroom.

and through a keyhole, here's what you'll see: a thunderstorm
uprooted. That doesn't make sense: Imagine sunburn
in pale sunlight, pinking while you're not paying attention, tiptoeing
backwards, coming at you like ideas can only come: in your hometown.
At bedtime. Like fingerprints.

no witnesses

Reality was that tree
that fell in the forest
while you were behind it
pissing. The one that no one
heard crush you because
they were elsewhere while
you stood there, alone,
pissing.

If you were still here
I'd ask you if the tree
made a sound as it came down.
But you'd likely shrug.
"I was busy."