He clenched up his eighth attempt at greatness,
Kicked a dent into the side of his desk
And rose from his chair
Seething.
Julianna lay on the sofa.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said as he crossed
The room and smashed her head with the lamp.
Mittens slinked in to see what was the matter.
The poet stomped on her spine and spat on her
Until he began to feel better.
Hi, Mr. Letterman. Bye, Mr. Letterman.
The T.V. set shattered to the carpet.
The poet plucked the clock from its
Place on the wall and Nolan Ryaned it through
The window. He writhed out of his clothes
And did the twist on the coffee table.
Ashtrays and magazines spilled to and fro.
He pounced to the floor and seized the
Dead pussycat and with it
He scratched his back.
To the kitchen he sprang with a
Fat woman’s glee. He snatched a spoon
And a fork and played
“Knick-Knack” on his knee.
He cranked up the burners, dumped
Grease on the stove, destroyed a few crystals,
And poured wine on the floor.
He shimmied up the refrigerator door
To the top where he hummed while he defecated,
Staggered then to the bedroom, fell to his knees
And onto the mattress ejaculated.
Now, now he felt better.He marched back to his desk.
He sat down.
He reached for his pen.
He touched it to his pad.
And from his wrist the words exploded:
Roses are red, Violets are blue. Who gives a goose? Who? Who? Who?He smiled.
He capped the blessed pen and layed it
Atop his new work.
He grinned in the direction of his slumped-over Julianna,
And went to her,
And lifted her to his chest.
And as the two of them did the tango, the moon
Outside the room’s broken window slid on its own
Silver.
