Invited the poets by last night. They probably just showed for the free drinks and mushroom pizza but I don’t care. “So many of us! So many of us!” Sylvia chirped to her slice. “Take it easy there, Victoria Lucas,” I said with a wink. Then I presented my duck breast ice cream poem to Bobby– yes, that Bobby– and right away he starts sniveling.
“Yup. Free verse. Wrote it sans net, too.”
He muttered something.
“Bobby, hope you’re not offended. But yellow seems to me random,” Walt said, stroking his beard. “Why not diverged in a chartreuse wood? Or a purple with orange polka dots wood?”
Sylvia grinned, peeling her beer label. Bobby seethed through his tears.
“Ooh, I am large. I contain cow pies.”
“Guys, c’mon,” I said.
Opening the freezer door for more ice, I sighed.
“And, Billy, quit stealing.”
“It wasn’t me this time!”
Henry Chinaski punched Billy in the mouth and, of course, all the sweet cold plums fell out and rolled over the carpet. Billy touched his lip and looked at his finger.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” he asked, ironically.
Here’s the above Buster-Brown and Pink poem in B&W:
duck breast ice cream
your boyfriend vomiting
Cat is moving
didn’t look back.
You can make a dada koan or cut-up poem with glue, a newspaper, scissors, and a box.
Thanks very much for stopping by the woods.
Related Addendum 1:…Hmm… promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.
Related Addendum 2: I’m pretty sure this is true. Billy Collins– as opposed to Billy Carlos Williams– was guest judge for one of those Best American Poetry books. He automatically disqualified entries that mentioned “cicadas” or “plums”.