The problem with poetry is that it can’t make you
a sandwich. Two nights ago, I got back
to my hotel from the Mr. Bojangles, which
was the closest thing open, and found they’d
given me five pieces instead of the three
I’d ordered. I haven’t read a poem since then,
but I’m still talking about that chicken.
* * *
First off, lady, I want my goddamned rib back. I never gave permission for that shit. You never considered the added strain to my back, the lessened protection; ribs are there for a reason. Get your own.
I’ve heard your songs, and I don’t understand why you can’t speak proper English: it’s ‘Pharoah’s army has drowned,” okay? Second, we’ve all had a case of the burning bush; they have ointments for that, now. Get some help; it might improve your attitude.
* * *
Enough about the government, baby, let’s talk about my junk. My junk is beautiful in a way the government could never be, mostly because my junk isn’t bogged down in ineffective gridlock. My junk also doesn’t get a hundred votes or how ever many the House needs to pass a law. My junk gets one vote, yay or nay, and that’s all the vote my junk needs. Listen, my junk smells like snow and tastes like sunshine. If you don’t believe me, you should really consider talking to someone about your trust issues. My junk trusts you. My junk is something to believe in because if you don’t believe in my junk, what can you believe in? The government? Come on. My junk hasn’t contributed to the national debt hardly any. My junk doesn’t secretly accept bribes; my junk is honest. That’s all I’m saying.