The King of Kitsch

 

 

 

 (Poem for a Small Press Editor written in his favorite style)

 

 

 

He writes me a note:  Thanks, but I can't use this.

Will try to send him a poem he can use

like all the other poems in his zine

fuel-injected—flashy kitschmobiles—

all sputtering through the same stale smog—

lacking oxygen

 

I am caught in rush-hour traffic.

Nothing to do but write a poem about it—

pile it high with words we can all use—

farmhouse, desert, flower,

fresh spring gurgling

white seagull screaming blue

sky—goodbye—sky

silent churchyard in twilight haze,

no poets I know

sit here beneath the

soundless bell—

all stuck in traffic

waiting for god

don't look at him

mad king of the avenue

dodging through 4

lanes of traffic

will work for food

ozone pours up his nose

burns his lungs

give him a buck

done my duty

motion him back

give him this poem.

 

In the rearview

see him crumple it up

and throw it away.

He can't use this poem.

 

 

Eskimo Pie Girl