Poem

PORTRAIT OF THE SPAN OF A LAWN

This Jesus toilet seat cover is the only thing that keeps

Me hanging on.

After the football descends, a dreadlocked peeper punishes

One buck beyond every twelve I scold.

His boss whistles a lonesome crisp and pickles

My blues away.

Plied platinum, the vistas pretend we're pregnant.

Actually, we'll venture nowhere at the end of our thread.

Hip daughters and sons are tripping and buttfucking in Old Navy

Like honeybees in an elementary school diorama.

The sight is like Rainman recalling those disfigured and turned

Into punts and punt yards.

I worked late today.

I'm drinking 3 black and tans the cops shot.

6 large sandwiches product place a diplomat bitterly entertaining the

Scutter of fisheries and commuter cultures.

What can I do but author this inward dud porking his anger and

Then beat off.

Fuck me, I'm clearly jealous of all poets writing today, so repeatable in their rehashed

Slang and tendencies for sappy state sponsored suicide notes.

Drew University rejects my manuscript, denying me entrance into their club.

My toilet seat replies the fact that they don't typically accept pornographers, and only an

Imbecile would waste 2 years and thousands of dollars to earn an MFA any sucker

In the next stall punching his BlackBerry while pinching a loaf could earn.

Don't fret, I'm about to take my codeine Gerald Stern.

Everything around me IS muthafucking burning!

My pocket pussy gets lots of attention from Garrison Keillor when he's downunder.

Watch me hole his thunder!

O mittens, O booze, nostalgia has overfaked me again.

Guess I'd better roll over and seek bulimia.

Guess I'm ready to go tourette's.

I marry my yeast and cast the stadium a smell of choice.

It transpires my blues, hinting at dirty dildos discussing Leibniz and how

The centrifuge 69's high.

I pluck pills from the Berkshire girls who only know me when I guzzle beer.

In the urban of masks I find comfort in their unitards.

They're impressed when I glide below my own illogical pretenses as a writer.

The days blaze clarity and frizzy butterflies.

Meat says goodbye to the relief of non-existence.

Moments pass and 

It's no fun and you are no fair and each of my identical sexes tong

Just another camera.