I am Faulkner, Eliot, Huxley and Laurence.
I am Joyce, Woolf, Toole and Mailer.
The words are all out there already,
somebody said — the Novel,
well, it has them all just right.
So, it’s like headhunting, really,
sans Death, of course, if you’re lucky.
Well, at least each person
is worth something, to someone,
on high … these days.
Nothing can be truly enjoyed, nothing —
even my dear lunch, it’s always the banal
“oh, I’ve had that sandwich before.”
And in that simple, inconspicuous statement,
I lose all sense of originality.
There’s something in Ira Glass’ voice
that sounds like a cat
that licks its lips after chow mein,
or whatever it thinks it’s eating.
Ironically, Ira cooks his pet’s meals in a skillet.
Actual coffee ice cubes:
the work of a staggering genius.
Ahead of its inception,
the iced coffee was pooled
with equivocal cubes; a bitter finish.
The Moms likes to decorate,
I mean really likes to decorate,
to the point of fastidious labeling
and explicitly coordinated holiday boxes.
I fucking hate glitter.