Posh, Bosh, Crackles, and Corn

In the beginning
There was the desire to write beautiful poetry.
And so Man said to his Brain,
“Let there be light!”

And he waited for it to come.

While he was waiting, he decided
to write poems about poetry
and these became very famous poems
(which makes this a poem about poems about poetry.)

Eventually man grew tired of this cannibalism
(More specifically, he grew ill)
And at this point, his less poetic desires intruded
His stomach growled
He went to the coffeeshop,
drank writer’s chai,
looked important,
kissed his wife when she came home from work every day.

He ran out of chai change.
He became a critic.
“The verisimilitude of this synedoche is a grotesque of the archetypal man vs. nature conflict expressed metaphorically by the term ‘head of cattle,'” he said as he chewed beef jerky.
To the chagrin of few in the glass bubble
the Charlatan was championed a chief thinker
of the age
He spoke at
He taught at
He Served His Own Chai.

Cure for cancer, still not found.

One day on “The View” he suggested
that there had been more important male writers than female writers so far in history.
The roof fell in
He landed
back on
“Good to see you again,” said his long-suffering Wife.
“Eat your eggs.”
the man took his eggs
down to the basement with him.

And so he sat, waiting for the light
He watched art-house movies
He decided he was part of the Lost Generation, too.
“Dear, where can I find pot?”
“In the cupboard under the fruit bowl, dear.”

Back to the poetry he went
he read ee cummings
and decided the Best Poetry was the most kreative kind
with the least structure
so i t w a s ununique ve and ry tnai lli rb

(¿Por que nadie nunca escribe poesIa en español?
¡Pienso que yo serA el rey de poesía ahora!)

He smudged a dirty brick on a page and called it a concrete.
He wrote long tracts of confessional poetry about things that bothered him about himself
like the time he ate jack’s ice cream cone
and told him the undertoad had gotten it
Or the time he’d told Suzy that the
transparent eyeball could see her in her underwear
and she had oversoul in her underpants
and by the way, he and the oversoul were good friends
So as a privacy tax, please donate lunch money.

This poetry did not excite him
so the great man wondered
who would be next to appreciate his genius.
For a month he sat in his basement waiting for the light to come on

Then a storm knocked out the electricity upstairs.
His wife descended into the depths

Shadows and dust
And pizza crust

She noted that the basement did not look much different from usual
So she flipped the switch
Click…..click…click..click. Click. Click click click click clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick
“…………….” she said.

She treaded through the seas of art
Drifted to shoare on the fuse box
Opened it up
“Honey, this circuit’s already off. How long have you been sitting down here in the dark?”

She looked around,
Saw papers
no man
heard water running
Heard water running
He was washing the dishes.

Woman looked at everything she had created, and she said,

“It is good.”

Explore posts in the same categories: Poetry, Schoolwork

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