(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction

I’m screaming along

With Jagger

On I-135 N

And the radio

Keeps cutting out

____ you see I’m on

A losing streak

 

I can’t ___ no

I ____ get __

I ______ no

 

Cause I try

And I try

And I try

And I try

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Torque

You will be disappointed

If you came expecting words.

All of mine are dead, wilting

On the asphalt beneath

A maroon 1989 Volvo 740 wagon

In the parking lot of a Target.

 

They are lying there still,

Beneath that monolithic

Helvetica logotype, and

Rouge concentric circles,

Amidst blood from my knuckles

And skin from my palms,

 

And two 17 millimetre bolts

Painted black by 25 years of rust,

Frozen in protest of Archimedes,

Held like petrified dervishes

Unable to spin, spin, spin, spin

Like God (and the Swedes at Volvo) intended

 

Until someone with a bigger lever

Comes along to turn them

Hypokeimenon

All my cutting

With crude knives

Through skin and flesh

And thought

And purpose

 

Still has not revealed

(Caged by pumping organs

Or electric synapse)

That center spark,

That inner creature,

 

That created thing

That I

Sometimes

Call

“Myself”

Robert Simpson

I lived in Chicago for a while

So I know a panhandler when I see one,

But I liked it that you kept

Calling everyone “motherfucker,”

With smile on your gold teeth

That led me to the pink scar

On your black cheek,

 

And how you liked my old Volvo,

And how you kept shaking my hand

And telling me

“You got a friend for life”

After I gave you a ride

To Central and Hydraulic.

 

I loved you and your lies–

They are always so much simpler

Than the truth

Resurrection

Ask any flower or tree–

Even some insects

Could tell you

 

This regreening,

This shedding of skin,

This life from death,

 

Is not a holiday,

Washed away with

The next morning’s rain,

 

But a practice

To be done daily,

By the hour,

 

By the minute

If we must,

And quick,

 

Each time death,

Great or small,

Comes to us

 

And leaves his coat

By the door

For his return