Yes, it’s you I’m talking to.
—John Ashbery
Worst insult this side of
Texas toast. Your do-wop
daughter’s my Kurt Cobain,
caught in an interlude, receding.
We hung out at the hangar,
hung up on the thread with
which we were hanging on,
not making a lick of sense;
the world, too, was blinking
in disbelief. Shaking their
trumpets and all of their
singed, pyramidal Cyclops
at the universe was
every last dollar, incensed.
