Oh, sonnet,
schmonnet. I believe
in anarchy. I believe
in rainbows. I still believe
in an absolute legion of
unicorns piercing those
precise horns through
the dickhead of
George W. Bush.
George W. Bush
is from Connecticut
(true story). No matter
the election, the results
remain the same: he
broke my heart, she
broke my heart, they
broke my heart. I
really am broken
by the shadowy expanse
of my soul
in the ethereal emptiness
of my sadness,
and I’m day-to-day
afraid most poetry says nothing
but: “Waddaya think
of me so far?” So,
do I have your vote
for syndicalism,
or what? What gives you
the freedom not to have
an answer? And dagnabbit,
who in the holy
aitch-ee-cee-kay
came up with the nickname
“Jeb?” No fucking offense
to all the Jebs
out there. I really do
appreciate you
reading this: this being
approximately
what I’m talking about. How
do the brothers of juniors
feel about Oedipus?
(Probably: myth this,
jackass.) To be or not
to be your own
terrorist captor? Well, 9/11’s
every victim would plead to be
forgotten for it. Look,
I forgot where I was going
with this. I was going
where I forgot this.
Whatever you tell me,
I won’t love you any less.