My Heart Is A Wiffle Ball/Freedom Pole
I reared digital moonlight
You read its clock, scrawled neon across that black
Kismetly … ubiquitously crest fallen
Thrown down to strafe your foothills
…I’ll suck the bones pretty.
Your nature perforated the abrasive organ pumps
Spray painted everything known to man,
Stream rushed through and all out into
Something Whilst the crackling stare down sun snuck
Through our windows boarded up
He hit your flint face and it sparked.
And I bellowed and you parked
We reached Marfa.
One honest day up on this freedom pole
Devils not done digging
He’s speaking in tongues all along the pan handle
And this pining erosion is getting dust in
And I’m drunk on your morsels
And so I look down the line
Your every twitch hand drum salute
Salutes mine …
Now, we could spend hours debating the merits of whatever the hell this is, talking about what it’s about, or how it’s the best/worst thing we’ve ever seen, but here’s the ugly truth of poetry: I WAS AWESOME AT POETRY IN HIGH SCHOOL. I got solid A’s in poetry all through high school. My teachers wouldn’t shut up about it. And now I write about Kim Kardashian‘s ass and where Kim’s ass went and what plastic surgery she had done to it. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that you can debate poetry all you want, but if you’re a millennial planning on a writing career, you better get well acquainted with the Kardashians, because that’s what’s going to pay your bills and keep you from going out and getting a real job that requires the wearing of pants.