a peom a dya

Yesterday I read some poetry by Allen Ginsburg’s lover, and it had a lot of misspellings. I embrace that given the fact that I don’t spell well; actually, I spell just fine at a fourth grade level! I am not sure incorrect spelling takes anything away from the poem, so here it is:

I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.


I picture him insolent, insurrectionist
chopping wood
riding an ATV
driving a tractor
sunburned by Midwestern sun.

They used him unstable, uniformed
shooting hot bullets
bobbling inside a helicopter
driving a Humvee
leathered by new desert heat.

Once he asked in jest to break
up the Church instruction:
Where do babies come from?

I should have answered
in seriousness: Nathan,
we should be asking where do they go?

I remember him tall, lanky
wearing tight, cowboy jeans
shoveling snow for old women
buying two-liters of soda
instructing others on monetary conservation.

They turned him thick, manly
ensconced in Marine blues
touting an agenda of hate
pushing a deadly rhetoric
teaching others to fear our bad decisions.

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