Talking heads on swivel sticks
into my bleeding ears
while I stare ahead,
nodding on cue
like those fucking tchotchke desk birds who drink water.
I am a trinket who serves no purpose,
waiting for someone to leave a window open
so I can fly into a nearby propeller.
I haven't been published in almost a year
and tonight I'm reminded of that fact.
I open another beer and write this angry poem
out of frustration,
out of malice towards contemporary literature
and the art I have chosen to pursue.
I love writing,
god I fucking love to write,
but the apologetic "thanks but not thanks" emails
have been laying eggs in my brain for a while now
and I think they're beginning to to hatch.
I hear the first one poking its legs through
like a smoke bomb seeping through a screen door.
I hear another--
and a few more--
and soon a colony has formed
and I'm banging my head against my wooden desk.
"I'll kill you all I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL KILL YOU ALL!"
I scream, waking up my neighbors who shout back,
"We're trying to sleep here, shut the fuck up asshole!"
"Ah, fuck you!" I holler back.
I start bashing my head with a frying pan,
pausing only slightly to finish the beer in hand
and regain sight.
"I'll kill every last one of you eight-legged freaks!"
I'm convinced they're scared,
hell I know they're scared.
Shaking in their tiny fucking boots I bet.
"I won't give up until you surrender
and crawl out of my ear waving tiny white flags!
Fuck your insincerity!
Fuck your half-assed template compliments!
Fuck your desire to print vanilla poetry!
I'll have my way,
one of these days.
I'll have my way and when I do--
I'll tilt my head over the garbage disposal
and shake all you bastards out into hell.
Go ahead and accept bland bullshit,
you're nothing more than colonies of insects."
Did I mention that I haven't been published in almost a year?