who doesn’t like dogs
gentlemen
and i use that term loosely
god is giving a picnic
we were invited
but the last one
you guys complained that the grass
was making your jeans wet
and the sun was sort of too hot
but the grass was wetter in the shade
and the food on the trees wasn’t growing
big or fast enough
and the meat wasn’t
juicy or succulent enough
and the water wasn’t sparkling
you couldn’t find the waste baskets
not realizing you could bury everything
to turn to dust to turn to soil to turn to food
he brought everything
but your criteria has made
you blind of wonderment
the great mall
i either wanted to buy
and be good at
jacks from the toy store
or a band t-shirt
maybe iron maiden
but that is too early
now that i think about it
it was san jose or
waikiki but
the food court would’ve
been the same anyways
four well-known fast food chains
three places with things on
an open grill
and two cafes channeling
someone’s half-remembered
trip to europe
while it was sunday afternoon
none of the people i passed by
looked like they were
shopping out of need
want or even entitlement
the shoe dragging shuffle
droves of yawning adults
children on a slack leash
sulking obediently behind
they are here out of habit
and i’m jane goodall
Existing mostly on the fringes of the poetry world, Paasha Motamedi has been writing bad poetry for about ten years, and regular poetry for another five after that. His style is influenced heavily by the New York school, with contemporary explications of the "self" in an absurd new world. He is currently considering not publishing his second book of poetry, his first having been lost in a houseboat fire.