By Nick Hranilovich
Schrodinger’s poem isn’t even here.
You just needed something to read.
Everybody who thinks they’ve gone interstellar
constellation unconscionable consciousness
dart toward the extreme left
(H)ad better wake up and smell the Traverse City Cherries.
Smearing my makeup on myself, on the bus,
on the guy next to me,
wearing the glittery bargain basement bedazzled shirt
“Cum Slut” fights to = something like “Mommy’s Little Angel”
Smear it on all three sets of my lips, push the envelope
to the edge of a cliff
and fist its stomach ’til it pukes all of the letters into the ocean.
Good fudging riddance you printpiles.
Never sent good word to home,
’cause the written language is a dead one
they hear me on the TV beating drums,
standing fifty feet away from the marches
Leading a revolt against the revolution
and a coup against the cause
Down with picket signs, up with mortars.
Down with Lords of War, up with alcoholic baby formula.
Chocolate for dogs.
Equator for Eskimos.
Malcolm X and a Rabbi walk into a bar.
One got shot, one got disowned.