(a birthday poem for Rod Smith by Rob Fitterman, Nada Gordon, and John Keats)
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness
This page doesn’t seem to have anything on it…
and it’s like shoved in here, it’s like blank… totally…
what’s up with that? Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
What’s the deal with all of this birth stuff? I got a frowsy slab on that…
perky smoke… dug blastocyte… happy, happy boughs.
Now you’re telling me that Baltimore is north of Washington.
And it’s not that the phenomenology of being doesn’t always
already posit the teleological construct of dialectic ratiocination WHILE-U-WAIT.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! Passive-aggressive Sacagawea.
Dude, that is like so speech-based.
Frogs can do that! Look it up!
I don’t do rent. Mean-spirited leaf blower. Canary-shaped.
Lead’st thou that heifer blowing at the skies.
Dear Eyeware Manufacturer: How do you expect me
to remove these glasses from the plastic-tied packaging?
I get all my guilt by osmosis. More happy love!
more happy, happy love! It’s more Perdue than
the other way around. Meaningless, tireless, bunny-less.
Military-industrial breakfast special? A heart high-sorrowful
and cloy’d. These are the toxic waste containers lined
with Douglas Firs I was telling you about. My bong hurts.
Chicken parts in my long johns of marble men and maidens
overwrought. If you’re wearing mirror sunglasses and walking down
the street the other direction, do you still go through the same changes?
What’s the deal with having to pee?—there’s only one lederhosen
in that pastry basket, honey. Cold pastoral! Gonna line me
some toxic waste containers with processed cheese. That is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know, darlin’.
See ya Spring Semester.