Mike
Duron
red
"it isn't as if anyone would notice,"
he thinks,
as he pushes the brown
plastic brush
screwed on
to the tip
of the twisted-wire shaft
his irony:
cleaning the barrel of a pistol
is a metaphor
of sex
the room is dark
and smells of Hoppe's
how many millions
of men in the world
does he vanish into?
shadows under the door
cause the sunlight there
to flicker.
why does she
come home
now?
round I, poem 2 (April 14) |
| Mike Duron
lives in a vast cave that may only be accessed via an underwater
entrance located in a dark, still pond in the heart of the heart of the
woods, deep, deep in the heart of Texas. Living like a reclusive
Grendel, he spends most of his time gnawing on bones and surfing the
web, rolling fresh ideas for poetry around his mind like a snifting
socialite rolls brandy around his tongue. If you dare come closer, you
can find him at mikeduron.com. |
|