Dallas Wiebe, p.6


Clutch my gut,
   you butt singer
   of the future,
   you fizzle grip
   of all darkness.
Roast turkey in the half-hearted
   gallery of the ribald
   pandiculations of merry jerks.
Why clap up the timid slips
   of the lips when hagiography
   is the lust of melancholy?
Don’t answer that,
   you far-from-odorless brat
   of the half-schooners.
Don’t even think about
   hunkering on the pothandles
   of filmy corpses. Ask not
   yourself. Fix not the thimbles.
Figure to be elevated
   on catastrophic phalanges.
Digital, oh boy, you said it.
Knock, knock.
I’m here.