I'm disgusted with my
hands, my non-earning
poverty level hands
When at dinner
they ask, "How
did your work go today?" I'll
be thinking, "Oh, I just
pissed into the wind.
How was yours?"
When people ask what
I do, "What is it
you do?"
I should say "I'm
a poetbird. Being a damned
bird is my job.
Superbird."
If there's a
window I'll fly
into it. If there's a
head I'll crap
on it.
I'll zoom in and clip close
to the pathetic forest of human
heads and whisper aeronautic
secrets
Yeah, I'm on a whole different
planet from these people, I'll
be thinking.
They can't classify me, I'm
an airborne fright!
I'll terrorize cats and old men in
ugly pants
At parties I'll say
I'm a poetbird and see
how men react.
"What do you do?" they'll ask.
"Nothing worth a red cent" I'll say
"and it's really, really
hard because
I'm so damned
good at it"
It's a real job, having no
poet job. Even a poet's dog
has a job, for god's sake,
licking faces and
his balls, whacking his
tail twice and
running off
in the damned yellow
dust
--Jo VonBargen 2011
"Beautifully written!" A time capsule for future generations. FROM THIS FAR TIME (The Human Saga) Fierce, taut poetry! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005KJLCLC
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