The Mad Poet

He ripped up his eighth attempt at greatness, 

Kicked a dent into the side of his desk

And rose from his chair

Seething.

Julianna lay on the sofa.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said as he crossed 

The room and smashed her head with the lamp.

Mittens slinked in to see what was the matter.

The poet stomped on her spine and spat on her

Until he began to feel better.

Hi, Mr. Fallon. Bye, Mr. Fallon.

The flatscreen shattered to the carpet.

The poet plucked the clock from its

Place on the wall and Nolan Ryaned it through 

The window. He writhed out of his clothes

And did the twist on the coffee table.

Ashtrays and magazines spilled to and fro.

He pounced to the floor and seized the

Dead pussycat and with it

He scratched his back.

To the kitchen he sprang with a

Fat woman’s glee. He snatched a spoon

And a fork and played “knick-knack” on his knee.

He cranked up the burners, dumped

Grease on the stove, destroyed a few crystals,

And poured wine on the floor.

He shimmied up the refrigerator door

To the top where he hummed while he defecated,

Staggered then to the bedroom, fell to his knees

And onto the mattress ejaculated.

Now, now he felt better.

He marched back to his desk.

He sat down.

He reached for his pen.

He touched it to his pad.

And from his wrist the words exploded:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Who gives a goose?

Who! Who! Who?

He smiled.

He capped the blessed pen and laid it 

Atop his new work.

He grinned in the direction of his slumped-over Julianna,

And went to her,

And lifted her to his chest.

And as the two of them did the tango, the moon

Outside the room’s broken window slid on its own

Silver.