Doing Laundry With Jehovah and a PTSD Poet: Double 5×5


The Poet, having done a weeding walk
Through his rock-garden reflects on
The perseverance of weeds, yet we
Insist on being seen as flowers
Blooming in God’s big garden—

When you’re @ the Junction in-the-morning
You gotta take just what you need &
Disregard the bloody-rest-like the
Big-ass school-buses & the fat-assed-Ford-F-150’s—
It’s the folks strolling-down the street the Poet finds delightful—

But now @ 8:15 there’s little of either type—
Where are the Junction’s dogs shitting today?—
Talkin’ ‘bout dystopia, the air is filled
W/ Canadian-wildfire-particulate—
& though we still have birds chirping, twilling & cawing

We haven’t nearly-enough bees to suit the Poet—
But one neighbor says, I hate these fucking-weeds. Pass the Round-Up®
So we find ourselves back in the weeds again—
But, when we try to to kill them w/ chemicals
We wind-up killing ourselves as well—

&, as you-know, the weeds will be-back again—
Pumped-up & even stronger than before—
Big-barrel of a young-black-man lumbers by
Bearing ‘round his neck a big-duffle fulla-laundry
He’s gonna spend an hour watchin’ the clothes go ‘round.


Pardon me, but why is the bloke on that porch pretending
To be a magenta-petunia?—
Were we happy ‘til Civilization sat-on-our-faces?
Does Civilization have to = Extinction?
This roaring-motor world wasn’t made for flowers—

The Poet & the Shaman are prepping-to
Swing-down-south-of-here to Hancock for
This weekend for the Shaman’s family-reunion—
They have nuts-to-roast & an Alsatian blueberry-cake to bake
& all kinds of shit they’ve got to take down w/ ‘em—

The Poet, a loner by PTSD mutation
Is attempting to-be more sociable
Not to hide behind a cloud-of-smoke
Nor a barrage-of-crackerjack-jokes—
The Poet will bring just this Moleskine® w/ him

To Hancock, expecting to write his standard one or two a day—
Ah! Don’t you love those expectations?
The Poet believes that a poet’s function
Whether @ the beach or @ the Junction
Is to ask a whole lotta questions—

Let’s begin w/ this one Are you a weed-or-flower
Or, goodness-gracious, a flowering-weed?
& furthermore, who slaps-on these labels?
Does old-man God stare @ sexy-blonds driving-by?
Is God a weed-or is She-a-flower?        

Orin Domenico is a poet living in Utica, New York. His latest volume is My Rap Sheet is Long (Black Rabbit Press).