Another Silly Poem

 Are you still writing those silly poems?

Ah, well, yes…what do you mean, silly?

What I man is they don’t do anything,

They just sit there, words on a page,

What good is that to anyone?

Well, I guess I just…maybe you’re right.

Of course I’m right. I’m always right.

Are you writing one now—is this a poem?

Yes, I mean, I suppose so, we’ll see.

Well, this is a perfect example. 

You’re just scribbling useless things,

Blah blah, and also, it’s not even very good.

There are no rhymes, nothing pretty,

And there are no windy words,

Those words poems have in them.

And you’re just writing what we’re saying,

Who wants to read about that?

And, also, I don’t want to be in a poem.

Oh…you don’t want to be in a poem? 

Well, how about this: I’ll cut a slice of ice

From the great northern glacier, the bluest cold,

The purest freeze, and use it as a blade

To cut you out of my poem, and then

I’ll drop you in the depths of a red desert 

Where you’ll shrivel and shrink and dissolve

Into tiny dregs of invisible sandy meanness.

Ha! The purest freeze from the great northern—

See, that’s what I mean, that’s windy and dumb,

And invisible sandy meanness? That’s nothing.

And, I’d like to see you try to drop me in a desert!

You couldn’t even…hey! where’d you get that thing? 

Holy hell it’s sharp, don’t wave it around like that!

What are you doing, that’s just air, you can’t…

Not all around me, where will I go? Please don’t…

This isn’t happening, that thing is just pretend,

You’re just imagining this, writing stupid words,

You’re just…boy it’s hot, I can’t talk, my voice is…