I
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.
II
I hate the word poetry and
poesy is a nosegay of peonies,
cheery, spry and almost
aromatic, like tin.
III
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.