
Every poem in the world begins
with a slick, a slip, a virgin chord-
A light to leave you wanting more.
An oven to put your head in, Mother!
A face to make yours fade away, I’m
feeling, I’m feeling! And so it refrains.
Odysseus crosses an ocean and
finds- little more than Mona Lisa’s
beady eyes. Seven feet up the wall
and tiny. What’s more, tonight
me and Odysseus are crying. Drinking
cheap champagne and whining-
Because we have no battles to fight.
Because I’m blue eyed and Odysseus
is white. And I had no want to write
about the plight of fellow women-
So we talk about our feelings, and
we talk about our feelings! And we talk
about our feelings till our feelings refrain.
As the hours drunkly wind, Odysseus
takes up painting. A Masterpiece!
A pure design! We’re artists, girl-
The world for us aching! But everything
on canvas looked an empty Jackson
Pollock. The sketches on the floor
revealed a poorly drawn Matisse.
The hero in his underwear did crumple
to the floor and beg- “This is where
every poem ends!” It is not the end.