When everything turns ugly but the Sun still rises

I like the title but I cannot think of
Some content, the mind is obsolete, obese
And opportunistic
I’m thinking about the demons
I take the fishing road and fish for the stars
Lucky day, I fed the jackals
Parrot feathers, my crown, I’m an Indian,
I’m a joker, idiot
The happy-to-be-on-the-biggest-s**t fly
A greasy kind of an angel
When the sun rise
And everything turns ugly
I just fly and hit your window
And now you’re
Just a widow
Not too bad
Just as a broken coffee cup in grandpa’s asylum

Reviews

[arbitrary jane]

i'm all gratitude to emily for pointing the way to you.
this is magnificent.
beat-like. also, maybe i'm partial because of this weird attraction i have to ugliness. it's a relative term, but there is something in a jackal-feed, in flies on a window. in the sun rising to light up nothing but scraggy bushes and old coffee cups and the wind swept dunes of rusted tin cans and cigarette butts.
and that even in the midst of demon thoughts, you're taking the fishing road and fishing for stars.
hold up a minute, i'll go get my gear.

[Emily B]

I suppose that most poets are too stunned to leave anything in this little box. But I have foolish ways, and I don't mind if you know that I came and read and wandered off shaking my head a little at the brilliance of a mind.