The Splendor of Your Bullshit

Look, dude, poetically speaking

Or not, your bullshit does not

Impress me--no matter how you say it--

Briefly or otherwise; just know

That I am here to have fun, that's all--

No matter what you think of my

Use of language--whether drunk or sober--

I express what's on my mind--

And I don't need to throw chairs

Or tables, or toilet seats into some

Clever verses, calling out for some

Panspermic universe; life is

Mysterious enough, you know,

And you can call me an idiot, et cetera,

Et cetera, and that's just fine with me--

For I enjoy my freedom from

Your cerebral masturbation,

Your enjambments and your

Arbitrary breath stops--

Doo me, shooby-doo-bee, doo-bop...

No, I don't need your definition

Of what's good poetry and what's

Self-indulgent neophyte verse--

Your bullshit doesn't matter in the least--

No matter how many times you

Revise it, over and over and over...

It all adds up to nothing in the end--

The sofas, the chairs, the pillows,

That jar of mayonnaise that you left

Open for that fly to snack on,

Your stupid underwear, and your

Girlfriend who left you for a more

Good-looking writer, who knows

How to play guitar--it's all irrelevant--

Doo me, shooby-doo-bee, doo-bop, doo-hop...

And you will talk about it

Like some poetic zit on your butt,

That you discovered while showering

And composing your latest

Masterpiece at 4 a.m.,

Looking for that light at the end

Of the tunnel...

But there was nothing but cold coffee,

Dry toast, and an empty bed,

That was too small for your

Giant ego.


                June 21, 2008


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