I'm guilty. I've gone around
many towns scaring
the dull rich. I get caught,
get wrapped in their sticky
bandages of change.
Psychologists who hump

the police put me in a room
and turn flower stems into
pins to keep my eyes
open. With each attempted
blink, a new zinnia blooms.
Petal knives slice my face--

I become whatever it is
they have in mind. Whatever
remains of the old me
seeps away into zinnias,
crimson in summer sun,
bee ready.



Sometimes I Get Tired

Sometimes I get tired
of the Romantic poets,
not often, but sometimes
this "I can find God
in a meadow" stuff grates--

I can find God while
buttfucking, but I don't need
a meadow for that,
can find the Goddess
in a meadow but just as
easily in a sweatshop. OK,

I have been in meadows,
gardens and greenhouses
when deities kept popping in
and out of gentians, got
to know many by name.
Nature?

The best genderfuck--
everything blends and swirls,
green leaves, red leaves,
brown, orange, copper,
and we walk among them all.

Ken Pobo



Ken Pobo's work appears in: Mudfish, American Writing, Nimrod, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. Last year Palanquin Press brought out his chapbook called Cicadas in the Apple Tree. Mostly what gets him writing is weird obscure records from the 1960s; weird obscure pathways into love; gardens; and the exceedingly weird and obscure events of this kulture.