Every Broken Thing

Colorado, Not So Much
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

Colorado, Not So Much

You spurn my words while smoking shit
tobacco the poorest Europeans now detest.
Even my initials cause you strife. Desecrated,
as you are, in pea coat and tam that caused
Ginsberg to grin each time you hurriedly motored by.

Your mere presence is a sham – a faulty cliché
that would cause a priest to cringe,
in the midst of fingering beads. For God’s sake,
even California whomped the French; (Colorado,
not so much. But their yeast is fresh, well

defined, contained and not the contaminate
you swear incites your palate). You place
yourself, as always, center stage. The venue
vacant and silence perfect as the savior you deny.
A pantomime without harlequin, a promise unfulfilled.