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I'm Waiting In My Sonnet With The Engine Running (from Ruthless Grip Poems)
The cars are smarter than people,
the bombs are smarter than cars,
and the trees have learned to sing.
Susan Holy War smiles,
slips a poison-tipped dart into her blowgun,
and whispers, "Just cuz it looks like a poem don't mean it is a poem."
I'm so sad,
spring comes one second late,
and the crystal rain is playing a broken harmonica.
A detective pulls the brim of his black hat lower over his eyes,
grips his .45,
and steps through the hatch of a flying saucer.
Poetry is not a scalpel in the hand of a surgeon.
Poetry is a raygun in the hand of a Bigfoot.
This poem appears in the 2004 Anthology
View all poems by Chris Toll