peas in a pod

the pod people
ponder poems
while wand-
ering, wa
-ndering
through
the woods
(trees for forest mind)
(time stripping operations)
(i'm not a lumberjack)
(i feel fine)

the robo readers
repeat what others
have said, missing the
point, missing the emotion,
missing the poem itself, if as
that was (entirely) possible.

street poet got the hook up
on words that blur the
curbside dreams of
misery, kicking
cans of dis-
aster for-
ever and
after
even
...
ever
often
even and
forester dis'
sing the poet o'
the streets, not we-
ll trained, like cool J,
perhaps it all breaks down.

(...stops)
(...ripples)
(time packages...)
(...from the past)
(no sense time switch...)
(running in neutral...)

editor poet says he'll get to
another poem then, it seems,
never does. no exit too
close to take, and i
will get to it
eventually
but for now the other poet sides
kick the glasses wearing poet's ass
and run wantonly through the streets
of dreams within the mind.

(all time... - backup)