I Love Wonder Bread in This Poem
Because I am a teenager in it. And because the 21st century has not begun to outrage me yet.
And because I am somewhat like a teapot in my bell-bottoms at this time. And because I am
like salt at the bottom of a well. And because this salt is a kind of rock I can’t wash out.
And because what I know is not very much. And because mostly my way is mostly to mope.
Yeah, this poem has come to earth to tell you this. And something about the mother. Something about
the father. Because everyone’s all out to lunch! Eating cucumber sandwiches down at that diner!
And wearing miniskirts. Something about the moon, Freud, Women’s Lib, and orange juice.
Oh, and yummy gin in a wavy glass the color of charred butter. And TV. And sex.
The rich aren’t all that rich in the mountains. But they’re way richer than you. I mean me.
They take their kids to the zoo. This is a poem because I say it is. That’s my hardcore Ars Poetica
right there: to blow little pieces of everything I hate but want back anyway everywhere.
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Missing Soul Report
The little freak in me still wonders where his soul went
when it stopped being nifty. Into the pits of limbo
& down a gorge now caught in the gap between
a gulch & a gully? And is his poor little baby soul dirty?
Is it thirsty? Does it need a swaddle or is it basically
just a rockpile & if that’s wrong is it choking & if so
does it need a helicopter & a throng of intrepid medics
with their nets & mighty ropes & if so who does that
aforesaid wacko of a nutjob yours truly have to call
to get the authorities down there with their acetaminophen
& antiseptic cotton swabs? Little psycho swamp rabbit
can’t even wake up in the calm American mountains
& just sing a little song of sixpence & a pocketful of rye
without feeling his lost soul writhe in the shabby whorl.
Little hopelessly dumbass crackhead of the afterworld.