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Tuesday, February 22, 2000
By Paul Ford
Poetry all sliced up, and then put back together.
Each line below links you to its respective poem.
Update: links don't work anymore, sadly.
My father calls me every Sunday morning.
For fifty years, the man ate eggs.
What made the man kill this bear?
He owns a smoke shop, the bastard.
Above the deli in Hell's Kitchen where the fire erupted,
He was awful to service people when he was drinking.
According to Popular Mechanics, April, 1951,
After he'd consumed tons of lipstick,
He died, and I admired
This other woman in my body.
She is making a sculpture of me
We sit in the womanless car,
I don't know what to do with his body.
Late afternoon and the man finds himself,
Before the woman's hips
This is where they keep the bits and pieces
After the offending bit is popped out
Just like that, the opening
My father's Holsteins,
Like girls on prom night dressed
We're headed for empty-headedness,
Descartes kept his in the pineal gland...
Everywhere around me there is confusion.
The maypole glistens with pig fat.
Days I don't drink I am aimless
' Rat! Torturing my BRAIN!'