overheard in a college town pizza parlor
I don’t give a shit about what the little tune is for singing a haiku,

and I don’t want to hear your big, silly words about what’s lost
in translation. I know, and I will not stoop to count syllables

of English to mock a form that mocks us all. I don’t give a crap
about duende, German sonnets, arcane allusions, or any other

je ne sais quoi you don’t even understand and that means no more
to me than I am scrupulously denied knowing something only

you are superior enough to know. I wouldn’t care what a bunt
or an end zone or a free throw is even if those games meant

a damned thing more than boys will be boys until, at last, finally,
they fucking die, because we all know no one misses even one

of the aging fools who wastes time watching others win. I don’t
want to hear the stupid words some ridiculous Christian tagged

to “Greensleeves.” I don’t want to learn about the Mayan calendar
or the sanctity of prime numbers (except for 2) or one genesis

of language in Proto-Indo-European. I don’t want Stonehenge
explained to me. I get it. And I don’t want to listen ever again

to that third-rate musician next door practice licks on “Take Five.”
It’s jazz, you lackluster fuck; nobody knows how to do it right.

And I don’t care that you don’t care that I don’t care. Go wrap
yourself in the flag, get drunk, and crash your pickup into a pole.

You might as well extinguish one more light before you go.