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The discipline that requires one to sit through sift through

the flickering fakery the monotonous monotony

of Birth of a Nation more than half a time must

be chafed beneath and ultimately

unsubmitted to. Art history

is a nightmare from which I’m trying to awake.


I hate the word poetry and

poesy is a nosegay of peonies,

cheery, spry and almost

aromatic, like tin.


Joe Montana never wondered.

He arrived without leaving,

assumed a gold helmet, let

four dimples dazzle

from lightly-downed cheeks.

He had the gusto delivered.