After

After ‘A letter to the World 3, by Mark Sargent’
by Bob Phillips
next up, phosphorescent seas.
reefers of the oligarchs, I dredge
at distance. took my last dog to the beach
she liked to roam. shallow grave under a plywood
scrap. cinder block weights. thought:
pits of the pioneers. Six years later the plywood holds.
follow the money, fuck the arrogance.
my fundy, fundie scrambles were governments.
because we can. now I free associate
without the charges.
the secret service shows up to check
why you subscribed to Pravda
for your high school language class.
spit shine. hospital corners.
the donut lady psych at the exit of draft exam.
sheep prep chutes the labyrinth of assertions.
ribbon shunts like rock club entry. bypass
for the special people. frequent flyers.
three hours of news each night each channeling
saying the same thing.
and at coffee in the morning.
this is not a microphone, it’s a business.
the bicycle anarchist alliance rides
naked moons.
the response to my poem said – Please,
don’t write on my facebook page without checking
with me first. That’s a good one.