poets come out of your toilets
you’ve been holed up too long
playing with yourselves with
your wastes you’re wasting away
all olfactory sensations dead
what with your head now situated
on your posterior oneeyed cyclopian
peering down into midnight bottom
of the outhouse and it’s time to
throw away the corncobs and Sears
catalogs and walk back out into
the barnyards the open pastures
of the world where animals and
people and flowers still bloom
where the sun still shines through
the moon at midnight in that other
world you’ve lost until now it’s
high time to wake up pull your sad
face and every other hanging down
part of you out of that stinking
forlorn lost world you’ll be fertilizer
soon enough for now it’s time to
reconstruct who you are your life
time to check out of the amnesia
motel and get back on the highway
61 or 66 or 69 and finally say
goodbye to those lonesome lost
blue pieces of who you used to
be and say hello to this yellow
sunrise post-world where the crows
are grinning and the morning glories
sing
copyright (c) 2014 ron whitehead