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?”