John Hilliard/Flickr. Modified by James Thacher.
In my soul grows a small soul.
In my small soul, one smaller.
Infinite repetition, nonstop loop.
Each beanstalk is an endophyte.
Inside my teeth lie small baby teeth.
Inside those, infinitesimal baby teeth.
I reject each grim oath whispered
by gypsies in Western Mass. I fumigate
rotting futons. If he were still akickin’
I’d kick Robert Frost’s ass
in kickball. I’d pop the ball, restitch it
with shards of marble. I’d talk shit +
run up the motherfuckin’ score.
The game within the game.
I hereby donate my bargain-bin
Kama Sutra handbook to a humanoid
giraffe named Koan. Koan rocks black 
glasses and a Kangol. Inside Koan’s
neck is a neck; inside that neck,
a deep well. Neck-flex. How
ponderous. How ponderous the axons
fired into the cortex inside his cortex.
Over there’s the BBQ, the smoky pavilion.
Over there the gypsy fan club. 
Over here is Robby-Boy, pinned
with a participation ribbon.
He pouts and kicks a rock.
His soul slips off its helix.
Gyres widen around the bases.
Poetry trophy-wives applaud.
Inside the MVP is an MVP. 
DJ Koan is spun out, like his vinyl.
                                               ‘Til
                                               ‘Til
                                               ‘Til
                                               ‘Til it skips.
 

This poem first appeared in Rattle, Vol. 46.

 

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