I’d like a box to hide in;
I’d stay in it all day.
It might be tight,
without much light,
but that would be okay.
A box is pretty simple;
it doesn’t make demands.
It’s quite enough
to hold your stuff
when stuff’s not in your hands.
A box is many-sided;
it can be what you want.
Like a makeshift
plane or spaceship
in which you’re free to haunt.
So if you need to reach me,
for questions or for talks,
Just so you know –
I’m laying low.
Don’t bug me in my box.
Dude ked, come on down to the Auto Bahn,
we got some stupid good deals fah ya heah.
There’s like, I don’t know, a wicked lotta
cahs heah, I’m sure you can affohd something.
And ya know, we ain’t got no rum fah em
all cus them new cahs is coming out soon,
which is fucking retahded, cus they knows
that we ain’t got rid of these damn cahs yet.
Wait, stop. Cut! Can I call cut? I’m allowed
to call cut, right? I just don’t know what my
motivation is here. So I’m just an
asshole? Isn’t that a stereotype?
Fuck that, I quit. This accent is fucking
Chris Bridges. Who talks like that, anyway?
Posted in poetry
Tagged Aram Saroyan, Barbara Walters, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas have the same birthday?!?!?, Dmitri Shostakovich, Happy Birthday Fenway Park!, I was going to post a poem about Ernest Hemingway but it's William Faulkner's birthday and I couldn't do that to the poor man, Luke Skywalker, Magdalene asylum, Shel Silverstein, the joker, tuesday