Whitney Jones Olson
It Is, Abstractions - Poem by Whitney Jones Olson
Your Name here:
Error code 2, please contact your program manufacturer
at Your Phone #, here:
That, sexless progeny (who disgorged me)
is not your name, here: It Is.
In another language this would never translate
so if You read this as a liberated Communist
eating a Royale with cheese
in the Sydney operahouse, with rotten pantyhose puppets making love
on your palsied lap
splashing fluids cheaply preserved,
oily coating on your porous seeping bosom
all this meeting the viscosity of ketchup,
dripped on your aureola -
wow, it's like i'm sitting there with you -
closer than safe sex,
mama never told you,
oh you poor; dumb bitch.
Listerine absolves e coli,
but not herpes,
and not ending the search for meaning;
never the 31 flavors of Christ's pre-packaged flesh.
Comments about It Is, Abstractions by Whitney Jones Olson
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