by Steven J. Serafiani
you will be poor all your life.
I dispose all of this meandering self
devotee. Gone! In a whimper or more so, in
a scamper- stuffed of arrogance in the shit
that I pen but alas lit rag
intelligence rejection ribbon: roll:
What would I be, let’s see, in
1833- a blacksmith or a quack
pharma dolling out i hope this
doesn’t kill you tablets. Writer?
No. I’m not a writer now nor in my
past lives- maybe scrawled an
ox in a cave supine position
the sun beating its
har-hars into my finite pelt.
the fame daydrift out of tint
65 yellow stripe with ‘scape
bulges of cornfield, I’ll get mine
soon enough. Fall in love with
Diane Kruger, that Bergman
beauty mirror. You want a suite
in Milan for the eve? Let’s go
but first I must read to
college kids in
Crete. Power couple propeller.
I am Fox River bored- the
area has been red scarf gored
since ’84. I’m just as
boring I write and I feel that
weight of do nothing attitude put
me under for the next decade. Maybe
I should take a job at the Post
Office. Pension. Mortgage. Patriotic.