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To Mark Battelle's previous piece

at large

has anyone seen my poem?
it has tusks like a boar
and bristles like a hog
only one leg with a
club foot of pigeon toes

it stalks the streets with
holes in its pockets
hands wrapped around
its pecker, answers to "john"
if you'll give it up for
twenty bucks

it learned to drive in a
traffic jam, learned to sing in
a bath-house, learned to drink
with your mother and that's
not all it learned from her

if you see my poem
won't you please drive it home?

my poem spits at cops
my poem drinks all your wine
my poem leaves the toilet seat up
and pisses in the soap dish

my poem bets longshots
and wears an old man's hat

my poem eats beans and
hard tack and never
changes its socks

there's an a.p.b. out on my poem
my poem is armed and dangerous
my poem hates a dry fuck

my poem yells fire
in crowded bars

my poem painted
"I LOVE YOU"
on your bridge

my poem reads the bathroom wall

my poem needs sensitivity training
and a bath

my poem stares at retarded people

my poem lurks in the gangster's shadow

my poem's drunk

AT NOON

my poem never knows
when to call it a day

my poem has a wet nose
and a black eye

likes to hunch the legs
of old jewish women

down boy! heel!

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