How terrible and goofy is life.
Corgis pile up at rush hour,
video stores melt their videos
and jelly them in parking lots.
Slightly worried about falling into
China, whose whole shebang wiggles
into sexy places of tuna. I'd like
to buy new ivory cufflinks
for the certificate of authenticity &
those things hang well next to
Zulu warrior masks, macaroni portraits,
and most importantly, dog bones
that've been fetched across the pimpled
surface of the moon. Ezra Pound
would spin in Wabash, Indiana's
most accommodating coffin, if the town
wasn't overrun with H.D. lovers.
No one "got it."
When he said, "Make it new," the boys
wondered, why change a good crop rotation?
Poets don't know shit about crop rotation.
He was a fascist, so a point on the scoreboard
was given to the horny college boys
and Indiana could finally kick Illinois in the ass.
Anything for a cookie.
This is mere speculation, but I'd still like
to kick someone in the ass. The branch librarian
would not be safe under the bug net
or with an army of undead to command
when shopping for groceries or rollerblades.
This is my lunchbox and I will never trade
two Oreos for one deciliter of apple juice. This
is crazy talk. Papayas are not utilized enough
in contemporary American cuisine. Name one dish
and I'll list five random facts about Dean Young
that no one else living or dead knows. Gentle verse
is slowly making a comeback in American
poetry and this distresses me. No one will admit this
or answer my letters of concern. That kind of world
is something members of Congress can't fathom
or forethought. No, that is not a typo. Skillets
keep causing grease fires in the kitchen of my hair
and no fire departments will respond,
even though they took an oath to serve
and protect me personally. Fired. Fired.
Fired. Fired. Fired. There should be
another word. Termination means something
by Nathan Logan