The Disposal Disclaimer

I.

This is not the last poem I ever wrote,
barring no collapse or freak combustion
before this pen strikes again –
the sequel to the B-movie
of my life in which I get the roll
of the overly ambitious telemarketer
who calls insistently at nine A.M.
on Saturday morning – and assuming
ink or lead or print quality paper
remains cheap enough for the
facet of formulation, that drip, drip,
drip through the night that
swells to a flood in the sink
of thought, finally draining
down the black hole we call
the disposal.

II.

This is not the best poem I ever wrote,
there’s prose, that weed that grows
too fast for this gardener’s
clippers that cut (what else
would they do?) and like I
said, not the best – repeating
the obvious – not following
recipes for writing, baking
cookies of shame that taste
like sour cornbread – a delicacy
to me – gusto non disputatio –
take the dare to hop on this moped,
helmetless, fearless, enjoying the
breeze that parts hair like legs
with super smooth charm – Cary
Grant meets Harpo Marx, baby.

III.

This is not the poem I intended to write,
now a disclaimer for a disclaimer for
the new, modern, critical, American scholar –
let lines slip between the crannies of
scientific gates, that policy separating
the good, the bad, the ‘so ugly it’s cute’
as moms often say, automatic garage door
drops down, my head on the ground, and
in this last moment before my brain is
squeezed like putty, I feed you dessert
the way last lines on resumes plead
job the job – the ‘I’m different, give me
a chance, you won’t regret this’ pitch:
Close those lids above the eyes, pinch
your nostrils shut, and swallow this cookie
baked just for you.