The Slip

The intent of your poem is oppressive.
It urges flowering
in a psychotic framework.
The moon symbol clashes with the accordion
in the third line. Isn't the punch in the second stanza
a little too
on the nose?

You have no idea how many
poems about ectomorphs
crawl across my desk like panicking
corn flakes. Due to time constraints
we skip ahead in your life
to the inevitable failure.
Let us cavort
and entwine you at 90%
off the cover price.
Call this sour lemonade
but if Clint Eastwood gets
interested, we'll talk.

The window I used to have
is fogged with ignorant breath.
The day is muffled, the
night quivers and darts.
I haven't eaten since the last
time. Still, I'm taller than
you again.

3/2009