your comb not blown wise
till shadows crêpe the moontide of 10:58.
Don’t resort to me, this bean, bena
not gullied by the breakers
or blossomed into corn
old bar stamp, cower into place
with racist wisdom
and a harpoon grave filled with salt.
Nudity can be bargained for.
Tell us your joke.
The moment you post your poem,
A furious, shivering prostitute
will crawl from her harpoon’s grave straight into Forrest Gander’s glasses, which hang in his
Room illumined only by the laptop’s display. Army of cats from poetry.
The New York Times Book Review
was built on experience.
Follow her jeans to Pitchers, and watch the Camel
Lights educate themselves,
Oberlin College Creative
nightblogging the nineties
And The internet has that song stuck in its head.
Comma-splice smells like penis.
Professor of poetry replies,
“There’s no such thing as a fake poem.
“I’ll timidly beat your face until
LITTLE MARZIPAN: Until it resembles the shovel you’re beating it with
[Now is a good time for a sip of water. ASK SOMEONE FOR A CUP and drink from that. Don’t open your Nalgene during the reading. Unscrewing the top makes that molded-plastic cave-sound, Mac McCaughan’s mouth forcing its way around a crusty Bánh mì—ah, life!]
Necklace as breakfast food
or Infancy as crime.
I feel like you’re obliquely recalling jokes from 30 Rock and adding line breaks — right?
I dunno. Not precisely