Here I weep
My Meryl. O peep
Took a while
I rigged a giant foam finger to the top of my SUV, so my Explorer is referring to itself, bouncing down Pico
My dad’s subscription
in 1995—[womanly regard??]
Leaving verbs out of a poem
To make it sound Poemy
Do you think foam is funny, you fuck?
Wish you were a washed-up professional mtn biker?
Wish you raced with a plastic water-bottle full of espresso?
Berms? Where’s Jon? I thought I saw him the other day.
Question-litanies are poemy.
In MFA programs they teach you to cut out the more self-reflexive stanzas?
—[Histrionic and relieved protests] No! You’re “invaluable”! What else will you do? You’ll be hanging by your neck from the rafters of the graduate student lounge by 2014. You know hanging yourself makes you involuntarily void your bowels, right?
—I thought that was a Wild West Tale. That won’t happen to me in the Midwest. The Midwest has a protective psychic mojo for me. The Age of Wire and String is nonfiction, as far as I’m concerned. This blog, read by your coworkers, makes it difficult for you to make the argument that you’re “too busy” to take on new responsibilities.
The periodical I work for had a typo in it. I am going blind. Typos are like tiny optical illusions. Is that microskull really a wee, skull-shaped loaf? It’s hard to tell. It’s easy to miss.
—That’s not a reason to quit. You’re like the—
— …drummer from Def Leppard. I know you, Barry.
[Slowly zoom in on the fan. Then, using a Video Toaster, the fan blades chop/dissolve into the next scene. The next scene is identical.]
—When the band sings the song with the lyrics that refer to the name of the town they’re playing in–
—I know. You love that.
—I do. The people who shout their nonverbal appreciations —
—You love them. I do too.