By Michael Cirelli
I’m sorry if my poem
hit you over the head today.
I was trying to beef it up,
give it more punch and
apparently the ending got
away from me, wiggled
off the line like a feisty rainbow
trout. But it was just humiliating
last week limping through school
with that giant shiner around
my left eye. All week I worked
my abstract, pumped irony, stayed
up late praying to my avant-guardian
angel, burned incense to Ashbury—
and after all that, my sentences are still
flat. It seems I’ve busted my index
finger in a word playground, the loaded pun
shot blanks in my foot, carnal syntax
got the best of me. Porno and play station
has sucked the milk from my days.
But this week, I promise to lock myself
in a stanza and throw away the keyboard
until I stink so damn good you’ll say
I wouldn’t change a thing.
Welcome to my sauna where everyone
speaks peanuts here! This is where
I rub turtle wax all over my verses
until they are more polished than my
grandpa’s Town Car. I want you
to see yourself in them.