After Horace/Post-Bae

First, the poem that begins: "Your hegemony is love,

the kind whose toes I sometimes get to suck".

Later, the poem we left dangling from the branches of  sycamore.

After, as contractually obliged poem wherein trendy  signatory is fined

for hanging from the rim.

Thus the poem as minor arcanum and majoritarian oligarch.

The poem flushed out of tabernacles into empty catchalls.

The poem spooled in and of itself.

Poem au naturel, not chromosomal aberration nor Laverne Cox’ 

pap smear.

Poem ribald, poem recidivist, poem scorched to retrograde.

The bald headed poem in praise of latchkey, the poem rendered in duck fat, and yes, 

the poem just like every other poem, poem.

Next, a collection of squashed fontanelles. A Ghazal entitled “Ghazal for 

Ripened Avocados”. Or perhaps a found poem entitled "404 Poem Not Found".

Consider the allergen poems lush with honeysuckle and/or hyacinth

and major-chord bird songs, maybe.

Somewhere, a tree falling in a forest full of poems in medias res.

Followed by a freshly Botoxed poem titled “Franchise This Poem”.

Exercise the right to bear poem. Infrared poems. Ballistic missile

poems. Poems crudely kissed by a panzerfaust. Little shrapnel poems,

even.

Now, the poem cut and stepped on, the one drop blood poem.

The W-2 poem. The poem aimed to please its' Super PAC constituents.

Last night's poem as I rounded third base, declared it wasn't that

kind of poem, and neither is this poem or the love poem thereafter,

but I went ahead and signed the lease 

anyhoo.

Reviews

[Solar]

Enjoyed this poem muchly....lost for words to appreciate it give it its due!