From the Fishouse

You’re like the fat kid
offering up ho-hos,
one finger in the nose,

sweet treats exchanged
for friendship.
Or the little dog,

big dog ankle-yip aestetic.
If you need ask who is who,
you validate pathetic.

Like a concierge
once he realizes he’s just
a parking attendant.

A snappy tie doesn’t
mean independent.
A snappy vest doesn’t

mean success even if
your walk is what Dick Gregory
calls swagger.

Disrespect for your poetry
is a read-by:
line by line and posthumous

like appreciation for Kafka is.
Let me tell you how
your verse stands with me:

you, embargoer of poetic place,
you, fat cat at a soup line.
Since you take up page space

one undeserved iam at a time,
I’ve got no choice
but to backslap your verse

like Mister did Ceilie.
You better hope Shug
starts singing and distracts me.

Otherwise, everyone from here
to here will know
you’re fraudulent.

They’ll know you didn’t go
platinum or win a Pulitzer.
You didn’t reach Byzantium

or tap-dance to a Wurlitzer.
When real poets are writing,
you’re in bed dreaming

Wilfred Owen’s Anthem
but without the flowers in your mind.
Only the slow drawing of the blinds.