I don't write enough poems, you know that? I majored in Creative Writing in college and specialized in poetry. Silly. To remedy, I'm going to write this post as a poem.
...
Honest
I once had an orangutan.
Now that I have your
attention,
Confession: I lied.
Rather,
I'm so honest.
Some
get a rise
get-our-eyes
with bright orange beasts,
whooping jungle calls spread over cicadas
like butter on a hot bagel.
I beat my chest with
silly confessional sins, with
uncharming short-comings, with
popular soap box rants, with
swear words.
"How's the view from the high horse?"
Two pageviews.
"Where is your gut?" Says the curve cave in The Bell Jar.
My gut?
My gut.
Is spread over the cicadas
(instead of the bagel),
ripped from me by Hand of Orangutan
and sold at a loss - mostly on Tuesdays -
at answertheunaked.blogspot.com.
...
Did you know I was a beat poet, too? Surprise, I'm not black.
