The Pits of Despair

for Sandra Simonds

O life! In the raveled cardigan of my cares
I eat jelly donuts, one after another
And generalize, and say Phoo! Phoo! Phooey!
And laugh and cry, and fall into a bowl of chop suey,
And make a spectacle of my spindly legs
And sneeze all over a dusty volume of poetry
Sneering badly, sneering most unconvincingly and awfully,
Reticent for antecedents and fol-de-rol and whatnot
Because I’m the only poet in this poem you kids get offa my lawn
And head back to your clubhouse with the rained-on girly mags
And stare at your phones limpidly until the moon needs a haircut—

There’s never any end to Baudelaire’s syphilitic wanderings
So why should I be different, or you, or the moon
That spills its coffee on my carpet, shagged with corpses of bees—
And now the pointless cursing—Fuck! Fucking shitheads!
O Life you fucking shithead you’ve fucked up my most cherished shit!
But at least I have the low-rolling donut of language to hide in—
Take a flying fuck at poetry, Life—
Take a flying fuck at life, O poetry—
And give yourself a hand up the pirate’s treehouse
And send the ladder clattering down after you
And dream a while vaping a cloud big enough to carry me away.