Anyway, I was thinking of how underground I am, and that not even my Facebook friends or Twitter followers (with a half dozen of so exceptions in the former, maybe two in the latter) pay just the slightest attention to the magic that is Puppet Shows. I say "Please share," they say, "Fuck you!" I say, "Please retweet," they say, "Suck it!" Never mind that they'll probably enjoy Puppet Shows, laugh a lot, and maybe help my children eat something other than dirt sandwiches for a couple of nights. They don't want to be bothered. (Don't worry. They surely won't read this either.) If it isn't a photo of a cat or baby or something some schmuck ate for dinner, it isn't important.
Enough venting. I was reminded of the very last poem of my second wonderful collection Long Blue Boomerang, which was titled "Underground."
I want to be undergrounder than underground,
not just digital or draped in velvet,
but cloven-hoofed with fetus hands,
and worms popping from my
empty eye sockets shouting,
“Eat our shit, Charles Bukkake!”
I want to dig to China
and recite poetry in pictures,
write haiku in my own feces,
and sing dirty limericks
nude while tied to a subway track
I want to take Sylvia Plath
from behind while she’s
face first in the oven,
dead like Doo-wop
I want my sestinas and cinquains
to scrape the top of a coffin,
and the ashes of my
pantoums and villanelles
to be spread across hell
I want to be an ostrich,a ghost, a monster
with swords and guns
to prove the pen is not mightier.
I want to be underground,
dead like poetry,
dead like Stephen Crane,
dead like Bob Crane,
or at least endangered,
like the whooping kind
of crane that once flewlike words do.