Nick Lawrence
Crude Thinking

for Alan Gilbert

The boy whose tractor
I used to love
is gone, and in his place
detractors dig the time            detractors smooth the shit                    detractors pop like weasels
between quick sets                 across plowed fields of talk                  eased from bottlenecks
at gala benefits                       in hopes of invitations                          at banquets for the victors
                                                        to the Harvest Ball                                 of the Poultry Wars

where formal spoils are served                                               where formal niceties            where "social insecurity"
by homeless malcontents, and we can't eat, we can only         expose/protect                   = "the nature of the medium"
shout down the diners' din                                                     the private parts of speech

A poster child for Heaven
lost in the shuffle                                        A poster child for Fortune
of a stacked addressbook                           hanging on the hoardings
                                                                   of the air