Night Driving by Holly Schindler
Red and yellow, like sunspots, flashbulbs,
alien spacecraft, haloed angels--
are you blurred like I am,
flying away from your address,
tossing spilt salt over my shoulder,
speedometer leaning right--
are you blurred like those signs,
intersections, headlights after dusk
when bars are full of clanking bottles, come-ons--
have you ever been blurred
like the world before my dried out contacts,
like an abstract, a superstition...
like I am before your 20/20 vision?
Fucking Sonnets by Holly Schindler
That's a verb,
already,
not an adjective--
subject implied.
As in:
I am in the active
process
of fucking sonnets.
Nothing perverted,
just breaking a champagne
bottle
on their asses,
sending them
along
on their way to
hell.
And as for that,
fuck Frost,
who never played
dress-up
or held a
tea party,
who never
learned
imaginary tea
(much like
tennis
without a
net
is always
so much
better
than the real
thing.