Billion Bananas

"Mark LaMountain," two spaces,
 wrote a poem.
   That's what it would say,
    I guess.
  Mark LaMountain.
"Who the hell is that?"
  you'll ask.
   maybe to yourself,
if I died in some car accident.
  until then
   I'm Jim Jones,
    Jone Jims,
     Him Hers,
      Sim Sirs.
 Some anomoly in a world of anomolies.
A speck in a pile of dull glitter.
What's that mean?
What the f**k
does that mean?
 I read some Twain,
   and he said what I said.
     He said,
   ...paraphrased...
 "Yo G,
   this s**t,
    it ain't hizzere...
      chilllll."
And then I did...
 ...for about four seconds.
Then I says, "Twain,
 how you gonna play me like that?
I thought of that already.
 Even that doesn't work."
I kept taking leaps forward.
Until I hit a wall.
 I know everyone says that.
  "Hit a wall."
    But that's what I did.
      Hopppppping.
        Like a f*****g bunny,
         through the trials of life.
S**t.
 I was sailing.
  Then
        WHACK
Legit.
   I hit a f****n wall.
     I'm smashed to pieces,
       splinters, concrete, dust,
     blood and semen.
  Hit
    the f*****g
      wall.
I hopped in my spaceship.
 And I says,
  "Hey, what's just beyond this point?"
    Pointing to the edge of a map,
     the outlines indicating the edge of space
      the edge of existence...
  And I sailed;
   I ate bananas, billions of them,
    to keep me healthy,
     keep me going.
Then the day came
 THE F*****G DAY CAME
   There it was...
 ...the edge.
   THE F*****G EDGE.
And there I went
  straight at it
WHACK
 Then you think it's some kind of fish bowl
  But you gotta wonder
   Out there,
    on the other side of the fish bowl,
     is it just another fish bowl???
 I'm telling you.
  A holy-f*****g-s**t-wall.
How many times can I say, 'wall,'
  in a poorly written,
   poorly structured,
    can-hardly-be-called-a-poem-poem?
That's what it's like.
 So where do I bring the reader from here.
   Explain that this is my mind;
    Evoke sympathy,
     empathy,
      apathy,
       CALAMITY??
 Should you burn it all with me?
   There's not even any rhythm.
     Just like my life.
Get it,
 this poem...
  ...it's like my mind...
   ...it's like my life...
 "Oh Mark, your penis must be so big...
   ...right up there in grandness
     with your intellect...
      ...your deep, hurt, empty soul..."
Sim Sirs
 Him Hers.
See that.
I threw it back
 ...to the name thing...
  ...and it rhymed...
   ...and the poem talks about itself...
    ...and how great it isn't...
     ...which excuses it's lack of greatness...
I want to die.
 Not because it's unbearable.
  But because I'm curious.
   And I'm tired of waiting to find out.
    Even if I find out that I don't find out
 and that I don't find out that I won't find out
that would be acceptable.
"Kill yourself."
 True.
  So true.
   I hope my friends are worried.
I hope they think I actually might now.
But they won't think that.
They know me.
You know me now.
You know that I'm that type of guy...
 ...who wouldn't.
Because here I am writing about
 how I'm that type of guy.
I hope the reader has a good taste in poetry;
 and stopped reading this long ago.
I hope my friends,
 who have a good taste in poetry,
  kept reading,
   and will tell me this is good,
    that they like it.
I don't like anything.
 I think it's all crap.
And then I like everything.
Because crap is the only way to go.
Remember...
 ...when I started this poem...
  ...and it didn't have this a*****e attitude?
I suppose you enjoyed that more.
 Maybe this isn't a poem.
  Besides the weird indentation.
...
I have to wrap it up, I suppose.
 Leave you feeling moved...
The edge will always be there?
 No.
  Not good enough.
   There is no satiating this appetite.
    We're all Americans.
How's that?
 F**k us all.