Codswallop
COREY MESLER
The stumble toward sense
makes no sense
this morning
as I eat my bowl of ash,
take the ocelot for a cleaning,
and eye my neighbor
with the right wrack.
I want to see the stars in the
daylight, take
down the names
and turn over the authorities.
It's just this little
country and its rodents,
it's just this banausic engine,
this corybantic medicine I need.
All the women are
lovely, all the men weary
and worn. Called
away by wayward winds, helpless
at last.
I turn to the TV to see
what I think.
It's Rockaday Johnny, and he's
limning my life
again. The rhythmic
battle, the singalong canard.
Everybody!
