1. regular morning yawn -
i long to play the role of ‘monstrosity’
its the missing link between propaganda
and the modern poet… we useta whet
our tongues for the well-written pathogen
for the droplets of sweat cleft from osmosis
but sadly, there is no terminal abomination
in my future… the poet is dead / long live
"The Dead Poet ©"
2. electronic yawn -
in this scene, the role
of writer chews a cud, shits a butterfly,
and stuffs his bra with rejection letters…
jots it all down on paper - calls it a poem.
act 2, scene 7: lightning jumps,
electrode to electrode. a living laureate
is birthed from the ashes of a terminal degree.
his final dissertation: the pitchfork as metaphor
for social media.
in the final act, the writer’s facebook wins a pushcart.
confetti is kept in his suitcase for just this occasion.
on 11 literary blogsites, symbolic statues are erected.
there was prodigal fame, not even fleeting, but fitting.
3. ‘save this yawn as a draft?’
"magical-negro™" shakes the shit outta his checkbook,
patterns of dust in the shape of a binary code. a son
asks if bad writing is hard work / if paper holds
a working(man’s)-wisdom; magical-negro™ shrugs
and supposes. second-guesses his selling of legumes
for beans / shoulda sacrificed, instead, his laptop
to Elegba. regrets going magical when mythical
was his dream all along, culling old divination
from the inseams of the digital.
4. ‘queue this yawn to post when?’
the writer exchanges his gaping maw
for a witch’s craft, trades in his speaker’s fee
for shamanism; he steps into the night, doesnt
hit ‘send’, then he walks into the sun
(and doesn’t even say ‘excuse me’!)
5. ‘yawns to go’
he, meaning ‘me’, we are magi administrators.
we blows spit-bubbles with our granddaughters,
and show grandsons that there is more to being
boys than tonka toys and willy wonka’s golden ticket.
we, meaning ‘us’, eat egg beaters, goat-milk cheese,
and soy bacon everyday. i am a seashore walking.
i am phallic, unfiltered, long in tooth, & ballot-proof.
we, meaning ‘me’, i show you were to lay the shadow.
6. ‘yawn of the dead’
that one day, at PhraseFest 2010, as all
the other writers ate brains, i alone opted
out / stayed home, ate sweet potato,
drank the reddest wine from china cups
and mason jars / pinky up - the four corners
of wind swirling from my mouth - a swishing
song where the hues of ‘us’ are on the one.
i mean, just between us, i write midnight
(sans nose job) like an old, dirty hazard.