The flaring fray at the end of day
flings its fluorescent wings above the earth,
carrion angels angling for radiant prey
and the darkening, hearkening surf;
like seagulls swarming a dying whale
having stranded itself betwixt land and sea,
decaying in the froth of the swell
while a half-sunken sun’s shadows stretch over me.
No one cares for poetry
lost among common dross
like half-chewed debris
all along discarded floss.
Poetry is the sticking bits
of Literature, and its centuries-old meal,
and though novels can give the shits
it is of poetry they have had their fill.
The East Coast is the pushy, commandeering cock
of America, New York the tip at the end of the stalk
distended and fidgeting like the restless dowsing stick,
heady with its own swollen selfhood, the overladen prick;
and Washington DC is the painful, pulsating prostate—
dysfunctional, corrupt, cancerous at an alarming rate
while the Midwest is the crop-pubed balls,
funny-looking in their denim coveralls
and swollen with a cornucopia bounty
from each cornpone, slow-sperm county,
and the West Coast, or suggestive mons pubis,
is inclined with the grandeur of its belying hubris,
extending out from the gut, with its navel, an outy,
weird, bold in the sun, yet somehow pouty,
while Texas is…only Texas, a fatly puckered wart
that seems to bleed, occasionally, if only for sport,
whereas the South is the pale, hairy, atrophied,
scab-bitten ass of America, flatulent with the need
of an outhouse for its shames, its secrets, its guilt
that its old pride celebrates in the stinker it has built.
And Kentucky, you are the sweat-marshy taint,
I’ve lived in my whole life—don’t tell me you ain’t.