This is not to say
how I expect
to see the place
when I get back
from wherever
it is I’m going
I regret my harshness
in the morning
in the face of
your neglect
the night it
rained all night
cats and dogs
refrigerators
and horses
I was just horny.
1 comment:
Brilliant. And funny. And brillinat.
You don't let yourself do schtick much in your poems.
I was thinking about how seriously I consider the comedic impulse in literature.
There are completely humorless poets I love, but I don't love them in the same way I love poets who have a visceral sense of humor.
It's the Greek Anthology thing.
Not the Rilke thing.
Jack Spicer knew all about writing poems that were pies in the face.
Even the epistolary suicide poem to Robin Blaser is that.
Although, he sort of stood there and put the pie in his face while speaking..."Go ahead...better people than us have done it."
Mom.
Is drunk.
And gnarly.
Voila! Jack Spicer!
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