how much for this poem...

 from: Martha Rolser. Meta-Monumental Garage Sale. 2012 @ MoMA

at the garage sale there was this white truck with a slid window bell

why do I care at all

what people think

about Love

or its wordless expression

some people will always forget

I suppose, although I am prone

to bothering myself, pleasing everyone

striving to find every good feeling

fortunately, for my longevity

I've been

keen and selfish

too clever, too often to know

that driving this train

is best left up to those

paying attention

to the road

I’m travelling on

I'm into middle age now

into the great slowing down

into the light where middle girth

stays within sight, growing

patience and increasing eyes

for grain’s heirloom surprises

I graze and scour for intentions

languages hidden riddles

hooked for in the seas

of anonymous faces

the all too common sights

of a misanthropic world

I lean inside places

the races gathering 

measures of ourselves

where we finish advantaged

fed every purity’s remains

to write our names 

in the chaos

from here

I portal back doors

electromagnetically enhance

the brochures and destinations

I read pinching time

like slid fingered skin

over fine cloth

the right amount of stitching

can win

blind man’s bluff

with static lightning

key chained indulgences,

round trip tickets, ice cream

and a memory tied together

like a dusty etch-a-sketch

waiting to be found

near the back

with the books

EJR ©