"This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." - Dorothy Parker

To Nudge My Peapods Towards Poetry
(A response to Charles Harper Webb's To Make My Countrymen Love Poetry)

I wrote a sexy poem, a poem so hot
porn stores opened with expensive vibrators
promsing multiple orgasms powered from
double-A packs of its metaphoric complexities,
jiggalos recited it when testing new acrobatic
positions, so effective that money was no longer
currency, rather hookers wished to be paid in single
sheet copies, a lyric so exhilarating
condoms had no chance to break, its diction
choices ripped through latex like ten inches of bone.

I wrote an intoxicating, a poem so mind-altering
Blueberry, Maui Wowi, and Lamb's Breath getcha nuggets
went on clearance for five dollars a lid, hippies packed
its similes in bongs to reach their altered states,
alcoholics gave up their AA meetings to attend
PA meetings, gathering to morn the loss of a poetic
substance so addictive blackouts were forcing
sleepover choices, one night stanzas in exchange
for a ten year marriage and four kids in athletics.

I wrote a spiritual poem, a poem so mystic
tarot card readers and gypsies looked to its descriptors
to find the meaning of life, streetside booths were
set up on Telegraph Avenue and people flocked to
get a glimpse of their lives through its crystal context,
Jews and Episcopalians converted to be
part of a movement assuring them a
place in heaven, rather than burning in a hell with prose,
yogis and krishna's switched to vegetable free diets,
only vowels and end rhymes for the purest nutrition.

I wrote an illegal poem, a poem so criminal
bank robbers held up multi million dollar corporate
institutions with its title, one nonviolent offense
would put you on death-row, bullets could not
be found on the shelf, machine guns and bazookas run
by fire of repeated adjectives, mafias circling,
the search and knee breaking of violators of
mispronunciation, misfits turning to a life power
in poetics, a path that no parent would choose,
detention and a chalkboard name, a sure reward.

I wrote a fashionable poem, a poem so styley
gold Fendi bags with braided straps were exchanged
for a slight glimpse of its slender form on a page,
runway models planned careers around an opportunity
to be styled by its consonants, Project Runway
was taken off the air replaced by my title A Sonnet or Not,
so trendy that even after five months on the shelf
Ebay was still no contest, a poem so classic
Chanel sponsored its fragrance "iambic," a
scent lusted after by the rich and famous.

I wrote an organic poem, a poem so digestive
bean curd and spelt were sworn off by vegans
replaced by a simple diet of its nouns and metaphors,
so recyclable that no number or arrowed triangle
could predict its waste management cycle,
anarchists and feminists crossed out their slogans
and picketed for power of the poem, cookbooks
and restaurants were opened serving vivacious
vowels, my star table by the window forcing digestion of
invincibility, long, life, and wheat grass.

I wrote a fertile poem, a poem so motherly
a simple stroke of its theme would impregnate
a teenager on Orthotricycline, sprouts would
surround it in the  frostiest winter, and by spring
a, b, and c's would be dangling from trees to be
caught by children with rainboots and dreams
of a world in which fairies and goblins were
counsel, people would look at it a smile,
rub there bellies, hug their neighbors knowingly
as peace and poetic pollen were swirling thoughout the air.

Brie Huling