Not Another CTA Antipoem
Gooncraft of the highest order. Some
trapezoid had the gall to cringe at my
greasepaint, or perhaps it was my cigarette.
How you walk looking sideways, jack? We're
swinging round the Loop, gawk at the sunset.
A beat & I catch the caterpillar immediately,
like god gave me a maggot straight from her heart.
I'm writing about kitchens every day now. Figures
given the Palahniuk pickle I've got in my mouth.
The only thing artificial about me is what
I put in the drinks - I smell like vodka
all morning but I'm pure cellophane,
wrapped around the nozzles after last call.
I glub like a goldfish all the way home,
to write yet another public transit poem.
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