Amo la poesia ed essere un critico ed aranci,
gradisco gli aranci mólto (chi non?).
Let me critique you with a grade, dummy
like a dictionary editor at the peak of his day
I will scream that this writing is not funny
“This is not funny. Sorry.” I will say.
And when I use the word “pounding”
with a connotation that is not gay, and
my Johns Hopkins digital newsletter
blows out into the emptiness of humdrum,
and the renegade batik of blog stain
that pours from my critical frame
is unleashed into the orange-grove
of unabashed utterwonderdom,
it will all feel as if an extra stroke
has obscured my observations into joke.
And the 0′s and 1′s that pound
against the bewildered LCD pane,
they will smarm me and hound
my exotic and funny name, a plight
that rides on waves of electric light
and washes ashore in the manilla man’s
fog of a Monks, and a beach of asshole fans.