Blue camo heads

Take time to sit, to grab the mag -
with brown boots, stalling across wading magazines,
they mumble prophetic,
I'm going to bust up Atlanta, if not Chicago -
to wait longer than offending curious books,
taken longer to mature than cookies.

I was talking about the next person,
that struggle, though laughing,
mocking at rest, ready for the next publisher
to meander by.
The built ins are ready for drilling,
a garish if not pretentious model for
critiquing all of us.

At about that time it moved, skating
across Easton, scheduled never picked up -
neither were the times for sitting, posing
as though interested in the price of coffee
or pornography that will never be read.
Though attractive, never fulfilled.
Peace, love and the next insurgent.