Okay, I did it. I named a post Dookie, only for the old friend and student who has arrived to stay at our house for awhile. This is a different student than the one from yesterday’s effort. He’s all-together more together. I told him that tonight I wanted to write a funny poem, because he makes me laugh, and I thought about a Billy Collins kind of poem, a poem with a punchline. So, I tried, but I only got halfway.
Title: Dookie. Or, Waiting For the Megaload. Sounds like poop. And it is. It is a million tons of pure shit that we pay and pay and pay for in blood and rock, bubbling up through our crevasses, breaking through the hard rock, steaming through the noseholes of dead presidents.
This same smelly dookie can defy gravity and go right up the nostrils of young heiresses, right up there, all bullshit and racing hearts, all fancy cars and willful ignorance, all rolled up bills at a young, young age. This is some dookie.
It’s the same shit that come boiling to the surface again and again, the same old excrement that comes around again and again, the same words used to describe the same old shit, here we go again with the dookie on our tongues, the pure and restless bullpiles that rise to the surface, here we go again.
Title: Dookie at the End of It All, Dookie in the Days of Eden, Now and Always. Isn’t that a megaload of bogus? And isn’t it so heavy on the glass streets? Will we take to the streets to keep the glass from breaking? Will we run on the tracks to stop the most mega of loads? Won’t we, then leave the keyboard activism? Where are you now, you whose hands clasp in union?
I’m okay with this one, except that I’ve got my gaze on MO, and nothing is funny there. Sometimes it takes some time to process. There is the inferno, and my heart is with anyone and everyone who is in the streets now. I say the help prayer for you, and for us, and for change. Happy Thursday, poemies.