My Way_ Speeches and Poems - Charles Bernstein

[laiTe-jn-t~e- ~ui l~ing
There is not a man alive who does not
admire soup. I felt that way myself
sometimes, in a manner that greatly
resembles a plug. Swerving when
there were no curbs, vying
nonchalantly against the slot-machine
logic of my temporary guardians,
dressed always in damp
patterns with inadequate pixelation
to allow for the elan she
protested she provoked on such
sleep-induced outings in partial
compliance with the work-release program
offered as an principled advance on
my prostate subjection to
tales altogether too astonishing to
submit to the usual mumbo
jumbo, you know, over easy,
eat and run, not too loud, no
bright floral patterns if
you expect to get a job in such
an incendiary application of
denouement. My word! Ellen,
did you understand one thing
Frank just said, I mean, the
nerve of these Protestants, or
whatever they call themselves
or I ain't your mother's
macaroni and cheese, please, no
ice. Is sand biodegradable?
Do you serve saws with your steak,
or are you too scared to claim
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