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Monday, May 12, 2003

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
and why--
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
and--
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!
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.

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