1. Saturday, July 10, 2004

    after hearing the U.S. poet laureate doesn’t dig Bob Dylan 

    this is an audio post - click to play

    you’ve got your Hollywide smile and your clean blue shirt

    your fat black wallet and all the money that goes in it,

    nobody questions or likes or knows

    you but your title

    while cob webs creep in the

    corners of your gray temples

    and butter cookies stale on the tables in the backroom

    where literary dignitaries drool on your blue scuffed shoes

    repeating essays they’ve heard and cudding through world news.

    the signposts ahead have staples where the clues once stood

    they say, “please just smile,

    we don’t really want to hear from you.”

    you play the role quiet beautiful

    and after all we elected you

    as the blind seek to see, as do the dumb,

    the drunk wants to pee “Dylan is not a poet”

    you say as if you really know it.

    some times some folks say the wrong things

    othertimes people push their head tween their knees

    and shove their skull so far up their ass

    they peek wheezing from their fuzz-infested bellybuttons

    and nothing can be said to such a

    misguided oaf of a man.

    hendrix zepplin or even eazy e

    combined dont get the radio play of your britney

    but that doesnt mean that nagel painted

    better than vincent van

    go back to Massachusettes and write about snow

    jobs blow jobs write about something that you know about

    like buggar snots or the nail on your big toe:

    see that dirt stashed in it?

    pick it out and smell

    but don’t write about it unless you’re gonna mail

    it to Hellecticut as that’s the place

    where boredom and ignorance dwell.

    meanwhile Monday menstrates

    through soiled sheets of Weekend’s sin

    and finds you curled up and shiverring

    listening to Maggie’s Farm,

    believing and crying and asking

    “my god what does this mean?”

    beauty queen

    jelly bean

    jimmy dean


    au age