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

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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

sausage

au age

ge

e.