I'll be on a stage,
slinging poetry
about comedy,
and comedy
about poetry.
And it will feel
visceral, my heart
beating me from
inside and sound like
Elmer Fudd sitting
on a juicer
on the outside.
I will not yield
to pedestrians
who are not
happy to have life,
despite stuttering,
sweating, passing wine,
rolling dice, crowd-work,
added up to be
good-to-be-back kind of
evil evening that may
only be monthly in Miami,
or behind a Mexican restaurant
in Willytown, where
I'll live for a while with Girl Karl.
Tall tales, stupid stories
about fine gone goodness
with the grace of humor,
hands in dark denim,
shrugging like I can't believe it.