70spoems/potluck*

POTLUCK

Your bloody boring
friends robbed me tonight
of at least ten good
poems. I see my phrases
drowned in their spaghetti
pots. My imagery spread across
their French bread. My poetic
implications gulped down
their slimy tongues
my vision eaten at by
their gastric juices and landed
like bubble gum at the
bottom of their bowels.

6/26/76