THE POETRY OF MARC DESMOND
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UNWRITTEN last night i dreamed i was walking through a cemetery when suddenly, an asshole made of gleaming ectoplasm rose out of the ground and hovered before me. "this is the graveyard of original poetry," it intoned. "every poem here is about a subject that nobody ever wrote a poem about." "you don't look like a poem to me," i said. "you look like an asshole." "i'm a symbol, you moron," it snapped. "i am a poem about hemorrhoids; i teach you how to bear your secret pain." already i had heard enough, but before i could move a single inch, a mass of shapeless gray circled around me, blocking my escape. "i am a poem about lint," it said. "not the lint in your belly button, but the lint that collects in the trap in your drier; i reveal where all those disappearing socks go, and other mysteries of the universe." i tried to jump to one side, but the poems were beginning to surround me. to my left, i heard, "i am a poem about someone cutting ahead of you in line; I teach you that there's nothing so petty someone won't fuck you over for it." and to my right: "i am a poem about eight-track tapes; i teach you that there is an afterlife, even for audio equipment." then they clustered round, coming from all directions, drawn to a living human soul as moths to a bug light: "i am a poem about aluminum siding; i teach you how to give your block the sophisticated architectural ambiance of a trailer park." "i am a poem about regis philbin; i teach you that it's possible for someone with no discernible talent to make more money in five minutes than you'll see in a lifetime." "i am a poem about the municipal securities market; i teach you that insomnia can be cured." i charged at the crowd, hoping to brush them aside, but because it was a dream, i was only a piece of ectoplasm myself, and i couldn't squeeze through. but just as i had given up hope, a small voice hissed in my ear, "i am a poem about unwritten poems, and I can get you out of here, but only on one condition." so here i am, mouthing the words that set me free, and i really hope someone will like this poem enough to publish it in a national magazine, because if they don't, i may never get a good night's sleep again.
originally
appeared in Stained Sheets |