“Do you guys have that new poetry book?”

If poetry were breathing
not just remnants for defiling
if there were a hole for purchase
not a gaping chalky pelvis
tossed askew and broken
crumbling
into which you’d wave your rod
and crank one out into the void
if you could even make it stand
instead you drape it noodle-like
declare it Iwo Jima
wiggle floppy on its pubis
now you’ve landed on the moon

If poetry were living
I’d be waxing philosophical
instead of kicking violators off
the pile of ash before me
caked with drool and leavings
stale with farts
of ABCB something teen
adventure
crack cocaine and sex
suggested reading levels
twelve through Junior High Librarian
Have those degrees
paid you back yet?

If poetry were reigning still
your magnum opus vomit
copy/pasted from your Facebook
occupying fixture top shelves
would, instead
grace moldy stall dividers
yellow piss-stained toilet walls
right next to “JC Penney Blowjob”
Sharpie’d neatly there until
graffiti spray remover strikes
and melts your wisdom to the floor:
“I loved you once, I’ll love again
but you, my love, I’ll love no more.”

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