So guess who won the “First moron to
Shoot at the moon” award,
And more than a million dollars from
A decision by daft Norwegians.
There’s no figuring things out sometimes;
I’ve been threading genetic material,
Beading blood cells, filling in the
Blanks born of paper and still I can’t
Find myself in the mixture;
Apart from a small lottery win
On Wednesday nobody’s reimbursing
Me for my achievements, either realized
Or yet to be. Though to be fair to financial
Advantages my disappointments are less
Because of the paucity of my expectations.
I’ve hit them with big fists, with images;
I’ve cricked a neck from cell phone texts;
Numb thumbs and questions about grammatical veracity.
Though I’m better off than that poor little boxer dog
I saw locked in a car, no wonder they look so glum;
His indented chin resting on the window’s cold door,
Waiting for his owner to show.
Two nights ago I tried to lasso a goose flying south,
But I missed and hit a swan in a pond,
The same one I’ve been trying to get out of all my life
But keep coming back to; this apple’s not
Fallen far from the tree, he’s still in the fucking thing.
I guess I may have attacked my batteries and
Risked being fixed to the spot.
But it’s my spot, and I
Dare say I’m prepared
To drop penniless