Ars Poetica

give them something to grab onto,

hold on to,

un-glue

from the paper,

tearing it down

the middle

in two, in four, in eight, sixteen, etcetera, etcetera,

and so on

and so forth,

ipso facto,

de factotum momentum

of Latinate diction is too

complicated

for people to get,

stick with the simple

Germanic diction so they can picture

what you’re talking about,

even if you, the author,

cannot

even begin to fathom what

is coming out of the end

of the pen

and expanding across,

scarring across the page,

raping the white paper

like you would a cock-tease

red-headed virgin hopped

up on red

wine and ketamine,

I mean to say,

that is to say

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox,

in other words,

for a lack of a better phrase,

W.C.W. is an asshole—

so what

does that make me?

someone who takes lines

[of coke]

from an asshole,

that’s really a disgusting mental

image,

if you take it literally,

of course,

who takes anything

literally any-

more? everything’s

supposed to be a metaphor,

nothing is

what it is,

it all just represents

something larger

than the actual thing,

like how I am a cyborg

when I use a car

as an extension of my

body when I’m

driving stop

and go down

the beltway and that big

Mormon temple looks

like motherfucking

Disneyland—why

do we erect(ion) monuments—

the Washington monument is a phallic symbol—

to mythical men

in the sky, old

white guys

with long

white beards

pointing down

and smiting us for sinning—

and by sinning I mean being human,

doing what we were created to do—

you and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals

so shouldn’t we be

a zoo exhibit too?

a creature to be

gawked at,

banging

on the glass

in the primate house

and wondering

nothing

but when the zookeeper will bring the next meal

of squashed banana sompte sanna, winnie, woonie, lani lani—

or however that shit goes,

that shit we sling

at each other, shit

with un-digested

corn in it,

stinking

sickly-sweet like high

fructose corn syrup poured

steaming

all over your body

rotting from the outside

in

and at least apes don’t eat

each other’s shit out of a cup

and then post it on the internet

for all the other apes to watch,

to trick their friends into

watching and everyone

knows

it’s disgusting

but they watch it any way

and the second you think

of something,

there’s a video of it posted

online simultaneously

elsewhere in the world

spiraling to viral

video status, so Tosh.O

can give us a web

redemption—

as if we even

deserve redemption

from such an annoying

little

prick—

the kind of prick that grew

up in an all white town like mine,

popped his Polo collar,

played lacrosse and had

a following of laxtitutes

[laxatives]

and is still deluding us

into thinking

we’re all the big

[white]

man on campus, in congress,

I’ve lost control of this

and left

the author with

nothing

to grab onto

but the roots

of the hair

I’m about to tear

out in chunks and the teeth

I’m gritting

down to the gums and I

watched

this Nat. Geo. Special

about people who

burn their own

flesh

with hot metal,

brand

themselves to set

themselves apart—

isn’t it ironic—

though not quite entirely unexpected—

that I can call them them?—

God, if there is a god, can

any of us truly be original?

are we capable?

or are we all truly

Your flock of sheep,

meek

and wary of the meat

under our wool.