To even try to say poop, the poem constantly grinning
like a turd sailing over the turnpike.
Like a bicycle tire gone flat and dry on the playa.
Like a man wearing a hat inadequate for the weather.
I gave it my all. I was waving the banner, red with my efforts
when the largest wristwatch in Ohio stopped ticking
whose lead numerics held down dates to a desk to prevent the wind whisking them
North.
old Ollie himself, laughing at all of us. Laughing, laughing all the way to the bank
of the river, which I never personally enjoyed because of the war ships
and of the pond, which was too small for war ships if I'd wanted them
to pour their giant cannons into me, this is how I was
a horse, a slob, slopping thru what muck milkshakes make
everyone sick and tired of pulling sleep out of their bodies
or bones that stand thin and supple waiting for muscle
that won't come. There are worse things than the great plains the rest of your life.
There are worse things than the creek you can't cross. Grandmother
cannot open the jar lid rusted with memory, frozen with
solid liquid gone wrong from age
"You just can't leave it in a dark cave for so long", she said
"Or try leaving it in for longer."  In those days, options were
televised, live on-air. No retakes/No digital correcting/No post production
and only everything as it is after it was
breakfast time i ate monkey paws because i couldnt think of anything else
and squatted near Vesuvius that I might hear you breathing.
Holding my heart in my hands.  It was all I could offer.