It Seems Like a Poem Should Smile Wide, with Rotten Teeth
Someone said a poem should be an event.
A circus is an event. So is a funeral.
Just don’t bareback the mourners.
Just don’t address the minister as ringmaster.
Yes, I’m talking about poetry.
If I had the energy, if I wasn’t bloated,
if I had shoes, if a mouse hadn’t built a home
in the loaf of bread, I’d shout hallelujah.
If my pituitary gland wasn’t a mouse
in the loaf of bread of my brain.
If I hadn’t been tricked into believing
there is a female prostate which brings
pleasure through anal stimulation.
I knew a woman with a rotten smile.
She was what the normals call fat,
part Aztec, her braid all the way down
to her vestigial tail. Hallelujah.
I’m thinking if she smiles wide enough,
the black teeth glinting like the points
of obsidian knives, it would be an event. 