A Hick from Point and Shoot
I think I am a great American folk poet,
but I might be a hick from Point and Shoot.
How would I know? No poetry. No Bildungsroman
that mixes autobiography in. No anecdotes and ravings.
That’s my platform. Areas not interested in agenting.
No agent, no publisher. No tits and no veteran’s preference.
Let’s privatize social security. Let’s not extend unemployment.
Let’s protect BP from regulation, and lawsuits. Let’s give Wall Street
the leeway they need to create innovative financial instruments
and give themselves lucrative bonuses. Bush was right.
This is
Hick Lit: An American Balzac.
Chef-d’oeuvre inconnu.
A hidden, or unknown
masteriece. My
magnum opus.
To date. There might be
some tapering off, but no drawing in
of horns. No throttling back.
“Drunk Driving Song.”
Don’t fuck with a man
in a $200 truck. A Chevy Caprice Classic.
A kayak and a beach-cruiser bicycle.
Surfer Jack. A charcoal smoker.
With a blown-out wheel.
Throw a shrimp on the barbie.
There may be some attrition from
the wood, that is, the action of the nutmeg
on the nutmeg grater. Things fall apart,
the wheels come off. People wear out.
Women do get weary, wearing the same shabby dress.
So do househusbands. No reply or a form-letter rejection slip.
Dusting in a French maid’s uniform, a big prong out in front of him.
Go in the kitchen and pour a pitcher of ice water on it.
