Books that should exist:
The Fart of War. The Satanic Hearses.
I’m going downhill so fast, I must be a bicycle.
A Farewell to Harms. What doesn’t kill you
makes you longer when you’re young, though eventually
you start to shrink. Or need a shrink. Or both. A Room
With a Zoo. Crying among babies is more contagious
than laughing, and adults are babies
who’ve learned to drive. One Hundred Years
of Solid Food. If I make it to eighty, I’ll be surprised
if you hide a file in my birthday cake. Though everyone dies,
no one escapes. Little Swimmin’. That’d be swimming
in a bathtub or pond, not an ocean. I liked that book,
the real one, as a movie with Winona Ryder and even more
as a movie with Saorise Ronan. Why aren’t more movies
made into dance crazes, or more love made into presidents
and kings? Our Bodies, Our Elves. The Age of Arrogance
is every age, though people are better at being arrogant now
than any one has ever been. So there. Tada. Everything That Rises
Must Submerge makes more sense to me the longer I wait
for empathy to win the Super Bowl. The King James Babel.
Once upon a time, I had lots of time, and hair, and oreos,
and people spoke the language of looking each other
in the eyes. You couldn’t call, or text, and no one knew
what the pneu was, you had to stand face to face
and grunt or punch or kiss. The Diary
of a Young World. Then seven, or eight
trillion times upon a time, we proved hypocrisy
is what separates us from animals. Their Lies
Were Snatching God. Good thing I don’t read. Or write,
especially this poem. The Hell Jar. The Fear
of Magical Thinking. Of any thinking. Except thinking
I must be right.