a man stands on his hands
three foot six inches
he has no waste.
occasionally,
a bell goes off and
he has to scuttle away,
like a cheap wind up
toy man-penguin,
as two women grapple
each other ripping hair and
tearing shirts, revealing
blurred breasts
that once impressed,
but now depress.
they fight for a shirtless,
skinny white man
with a thin mustache
who raises his arms
fists clenched
flexing his biceps
beneath his right
'let's get'
beneath his left
'it on! '
he brags of
moonshine escapades
a convinced
kung-fu master
self-taught from
steven segal
on vhs with
hours to kill
and meth to wear off.
wearing a native american
head dress he dances
to the audience
'ohh-wee-ohh'
tomahawking him on.
the host stands in awe.
the bell rings.
the man flexes.
the women brawl
the audience is the audience.
the manguin urges us
to stay tuned.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! ! ! ! ! ! !