I’m an intrepid industrialist.
I suffer no trepidation.
I point my drawn saber forward.
I throw away my scabbard
because I know I won’t need it.
I’ll trip over my side’s fortifcations
and snap my own neck.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious
if that was actually the way I went?
Callin my own shot
pointing the bat towards center field
and I haven’t hit a damn thing
in the whole series.
Call me Mr. Fucking October
Even though it’s April.
I like to say “fucking” in poems
even though I don’t talk about
very much. I’m not sure why
that has a lid on it, but maybe
the threading is stripped.
I don’t understand that metaphor.
I do that a lot.
I’m a Know-Nothing, literally.
Not Daniel Day Lewis in Gangs of New York
I mix willful and unintentional ignorance
and two parts plastic bottle gin
and maybe a mint leaf
and I go about the things
I have no business doing
but am licensed to do.
That sounds like a riddle, doesn’t it?
It’s not. A koan is a type of Asian
candy, isn’t it? Like a Pocky?
I’m not good at visualizing what
someone means when they say
2pac left his mark on me.
But not as much as Biz Markie.
I wanna win a beatboxing championship
So I can save the rec center. I wanna
meet the girl who said she thought I
looked like a preppie asshole friend
in an 80s teen movie and see if
she’s done poorly in life.
HINT: They never do.
Probably a Doctor Gymnast who
Designs Superfreighters and
competes in Old West Gunslinger
I have a strange idea of the
uberfrau, don’t I? I will congratulate
myself endlessly on it as my
brings me to tears, and maybe
I’ll collect them and bottle them
and sell them to my fans
with a recording.
You’ve had your day Shroud of Turin.
I wish I was a shipbuilder with
not one tattoo of an anchor on
my body. All inside.
I am not a fucking billboard.
I’d sneer, and spit. I’d howl
the part of La Bamba that goes
“yo no soy marinero