My transverse colon is acting up again,
Wiggling like a punch-drunk eel cornered by rats
In a parade of ice on New Year's Eve.
I, a poet who fares well within boundaries
Of the obtuse, need a frayed lamp cord to play with.
Traversing Fodor’s sun-page, I read the tran verse,
But s/he stole my mottled headrug at the diner
Or pantry, it doesn't matter. What matters
Are corns on jammed toes I've shorn with a hacksaw.
Can anyone, someone, find my medication?
Someone told me I was a poet, and though
Unappreciated I toil in sewage
For grace I can rebestow on myself,
I'll quote Auden: "On a high chair alone" sums up
My childhood, Christ, my adulthood, too. Denture plates
Like rat traps snap shut when my Love refuses
To answer my mail, I emoticonning
Her wild, she may, forsooth, ignore, nulliparous
Vessel, verse translated into perfect hand wrings
In lieu of beauty. Millions of minions
Of my mirrored selves shelve green passions in my cell.
Come to me in squalid squat quarters, Love, and brook
No oblong egghead quarantining my maze-swept
Excitations in six thousand reports (full of
Noise, yes, yes).
Monday, November 10, 2008
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