Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Previously Written: Kovalent

I wrote this poem at the 2008 Kundiman retreat. Poetry seems to flow so freely out of you when you're there. Maybe it's the atmosphere. I only know that what little shell guards me was broken for four days.


We're content as sloths. Six species with tummies full of symbiotes, digesting leaves over a month, and we have chemistry

with Mr. Hacker next period. He chases us with boredom, tunnels suck in our eyes over and over throwing our heads balance on drooly palms. I beseech to bathroom but Hacker has elephantitis, "Peps, you pooped last month," no, then I played with my turmoil, he prefers us asleep, when it’s his turn to duty. Smad turkey. He admits thanksgiving dinner aftermath* to our nostrils and we all prostrate. Hacker douses us with Watsons iso tone and his arms and legs champagne, his head sinks into his ribs, his torso poles us into place. Silently the silence comes – is it the end of our world? We are one, we are a robot, a vigilante vindicating through Hackzor’s monocle of justice, dynamiting Mrs. Apted and her physics class strumming gravikords and vacuuming skunks while the thigh magenta grows, grows, then, a comeback, an up smash, an of the fallen living dead sith pink panther nerds*, we see dead people, which limb pointed out the closet empty of economics and theory of knowledge? Love polypeptides yourself because the time is now. Veal patties; they ain’t got dodgeballs on us and we got four more toes.

*Not yet a Cold Stone Creamery flavor

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