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.
