Thursday, June 05, 2008

(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?


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