Thursday, May 2, 2013


Now that the dog's dead, it's better,
Nicer to fight with the landlord.
It would be better still to be

God, if only so that there was
A dossier worthy of trust
To look at whenever the truth

About someone, say, a landlord,
Appeared in doubt. Then, you could check
And see who was worse, him or me,

And punish or forgive the worse
One of you two, accordingly.
No. I've got to get out of here.

I need to compose a goddamn
Poem, a goddamn good poem, maybe
A gosh-darn, golly-gee long poem,

One of those epics chock full of
Cockamamie shenanigans,
Malarkey, macaronic rhymes,

Allusions to fratres minor,
Moronic messages, battles,
Catalogues extensive and dense

As the 1976
Sears and Roebuck doorstop model
I pawed through in adolescence,

Searching out bras, watches, chess sets,
Swiss-Army knives, obsolescence.
Yes, I knew the latter was there,

Yes, prescient in my little self
Among crowded rags and home shops
Where all the obsolescence starts.

My aggrieved and aggravated
Conglomerate, egoic self,
Grandiose bric-a-brac shelved

For a few days, hours, or minutes
(Or, if we mean to be honest
In this most dishonest art form,

A few moments barely noticed)
Seeks redress now, to lawyer up,
Sue the future, sue the ages,

Sue God or goddamn poetry
Or goddamn landlords. Maybe own.
Lease or lien. You must pay the rent.

You must pay the rent. But I can't
Pay the rent. I can't pay the rent.
Then I'll pay the rent! My hero.

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