JERK
WHAT IF RILKE WAS A JERK?
Trying to open the vanillaalmond biscotti have to
resort to my poison pen I finally tear a hole through
voluminous cellophane with a bit too much force Hit
my Venti de-caf it hurtles hot-hipster-drink all over
Pulitzer winner John Berryman drips too onto Christian Bök
The bastard used every vowel one at a time in every word
in every poem +won $65,000 to boot A blind man walks by
his white probe on a single wheel He knows nothing of me
+my 3rd degree burns
Yesterday they charged Jian Gomeshi with crimes so heinous
he could spend generations in The Big House You’d think he
would have sprung for Eddie G though doubt Connie Black
would agree Xmas carols waft from the speaker above me
Rufus Wainright winges about a hot bath on a frosty night Poet
tries with all her might to disappear into a wormhole +write poems
using only consonants: why fly by my shy pygmy nymph?
But I fight to stay awake I fight not to fight I fight the losing battle to write
People on the other side of the street can feel the red-hot sparks of
mounting anger They stop +stare If one more morose mo-fo gives me
the Toronto glare I swear that I will propel myself through the window
+declare: I write to stimulate the old dead beast So buggeroff mes cheries
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Winter 2014
songanddancegirl 