Writing, Poems, Whatever, But I'm Wearing a GUMBY SHIRT

I think everyone who knows me can agree that I have curated a lifetime's worth of pretty kick-ass t-shirts. It's a skill, a worthless skill, but one that occasionally pays off when I find a thirteen-year-old video of me reading poem in a Gumby milk mustache shirt. That's the kind of thing people need to see.

Oh, and there's a poem, kind of meta-, back before that was cool. Or maybe it was after that was cool. Enjoy.

You Gotta Like That

Here’s a poem you’ll like.

This poem is like a poem that tastes good.

This poem is like a poem that feels nice.

This poem is like a poem that sounds like

a truck full of rock and rollers

crashed into a truck full of

sassy sweet singing finches

crashed into a small compact car

full of crazy techno beats.

This poem is a lot

like a poem that looks

like a poem that smells like

buttered popcorn flavored butter popcorn.

How do you like that?

You like that?

You gotta like that.

This poem has capful of whimsy

a handful of frippery

a mouthful flummery

a hatful of flippancy

a dump truck full virility

and a tomfoolery-sized dose of pleasantry.

How do you like that?

This poem, which I am about to read to you,

has a crazy amount of fanciful rhyming

describing an ark-full of wacky animal happenings.

the ants all dance in their ant dance pants,

and there’s a chance of glance of steamy ants’ romance.

the crows know where the ho's go,

and the ho’s beaus wear the plainclothes

but crows close when snow flows,

and those ho’s compose rows and rows of prose and pros

and cons that can ban the frying pan

whose plan began as a fan of the man.

You gotta like that.

I’m going to read you a poem,

that sounds the same backwards and forwards

that spells a perfect palindrome

that can be anagrammed into the Declaration of Independence

that can be diagrammed to look like the Golden Gate Bridge

its words are all homonyms and

its syllables are all homophones.

Turn up the bass, and it beats a flawless

bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow, bow,

turn up the treble and it sings

like a thousand prepubescent American Idol castratos.

How do you like that?

You are about to hear a poem

in which I conduct spiritual surgery

You like that?

With a scalpel of truth

I will extract my soul,

How do like that?

I will hold my soul in front of you,

where you can watch it glow,

some of you may be moved to tears,

some may be moved to laughter,

others will move with the music,

and the rest will move to bathroom,

because this poem has been known

to make people have to pee.

You gotta like that.

But most importantly, people,

This poem is about you.

It’s about the things you like,

and people, believe me when I tell you,