i am the casualties of six am poetry--
i have all the blocked roads
and half-foamed ideas
of a uteral mulligan--
all these letters could've been yeatsian flowers
instead of mere bad jazz
or whatever it is that starts growing
on three day old coca cola
-i tell you, I have all the promise of a snow globe
my ideas come from the same dormant confetti
and erupt for an entire six seconds
before falling back into the same chair
-and hello television
where we all love lucy
and chevy chase is always there
to break your fall
isn't that the miller kid in the rose garden again?
i used to be the rose garden for a 7-11 in glen burnie
where all the highschool kids
bought shivering thank yous
for these bemused bombshells
who knew how to skip like you wouldn't believe--
why, even i used to be a merry
go round to every belle ringing
holding up a new life
until twilight's last glove slapped out our dreams
and made us all do homework assignments as if they were faustian pacts
why are you looking at me with those rabbit eyes?
i have an expression for you, buddy!
this channel hasn't changed in a decade
but you seem to think
there's still some ineffable hope
in mid-season replacements--
wake up and smell the plastic flowers!
tom arnold still has his own show
and america couldn't be fatter--
and you wanted to use the trumpet as a bong.