it’s the return of the millenial landmineheaded boy poet
the child prodigy who can’t see the whiteboard from the back of the classroom
the rampaging aging bamboo tree that is thankful for the water it is given
and that is about all that it needs
quill and ink and scroll
hand takes the wheel and the rubber hits the asphalt
as the glove hits the face and the knuckles hit the teeth
and they’re off
pulling into the lead the inevitable truth of the brushstroke

he used the same damn toothbrush for so long until he got lucky
and he could afford a new one and he didn’t throw away the old one
he used it as a hodgepodge ghetto ass painting instrument
to flick the colors on the canvas with a lack of control
that ensured that he could never ever ever feel comfortable
taking credit for what he had done

any pieces of gold that got mixed in with the offbrand cereal vomit
was just luck
but he doesn’t believe in luck
and things are getting really confusing
but one thing is for certain
the little wooden horses are circling the little wooden track
and place your bets now, bukowski
because this dented up rocket ship is trying to fly
antigravity words pushing through blackholes
and coming out floating amongst the cosmos of the twittersphere

(a flower grows
in post-apocalyptic america
and it wants you to know
singing to a flower
will always help it
to grow)

and the weatherman says
flash flooding expected in the west
wear a coat
do not drown



Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

2 thoughts on “HAND TAKES WHEEL”

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