turdslinger.blogspot.com

(Dear Editors, if you were sent this, please feel free to look at the website and solicit work.)


Actually, I’m not about to
write like it’s
National Poetry Month.

I write in melted crayon
on acne-faced musclemen.
A canvas of oil and bumps.

I submit absurd poems
to various
literary magazines.

Imagination and drive,
locked in, like hopes
of an unexpected kiss.

or the time I kicked the shit
out of a Pulitzer winner,
signed his forehead for luck.

I felt like a literary
Ali without being
The Champ.

Even though I’m more like a
skinny, white version of Tyson,
these days, you encouraged me.

Who would have thought that
National Poetry Month
would leave us feeling so inspired?