The Charles River Journal || Boston

from Issue Number 8, 2017

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.

The bitter man won.
He beggared my pardon.
The song of his zipper
Regales my garden.

My wheels won’t spin.
My clutch? Disengaged.
But my cool keeps
When I’m enraged.

I was sure as shit,
But now I ain’t sure
Though my scat scan says
I’m out of danger.

Is that a tile floor
or a lost Carl Andre?
What you paid for a tall
I paid for a grande.

My ironist left me—
I pressed him too hard.
What he heard was, “hello.”
What I said was, “En garde!”

If you want a sheet of flawless,
American-made
Interior-quality plywood,
You buy “n-grade.”

When I wagged the god
My own tale changed.
Will you throw me a bone?
I’m only deranged.

I’m a little bit hoarse,
Said a jockey in drag
Atop brave Bucephalus,
The wonder nag.

The smoke at the end
Of the fuse—O delayed
Satisfaction! Dear friend,
Pull the pin of my grenad-!