Over the summer, I got to see quite a bit of Southern California and I took a lot of blurry pictures while sitting in the passenger seat. This is one of them, and, if this is your house, my hat is off to you.
It occurred to me that I stopped writing poetry forever ago.
Fuck You Baked Potatoyou burned my handyou burned my mouthyou're covered in chivesi don't mind the sour creami don't mind your general potato state of mindbut you raise in me a feeling so unkind
i took this picture of youin 2009but you are forever in the hearts of no oneyou grew, you were picked, you were cleanedyou were trucked and you were bakedyou were adorned and served in exchange for cashyou were photo thinged by meand i don't know whyno i don't have a clue as to why
this is your lot in what was a life
this is where you restyou are immortal and none of the potatoes who grew around youare remembered in any way shape or formbut this is but the norm
Now you know why...