The critic
wheels my poem
into surgery.
He packs the skull
with stately
stressing.
He pins a metrical
foot to its mouth.
He tapes an allusive
paradox to its groin.
My poem opens its
eyes and speaks:
Am I great yet?
196 Characters
Robert Goldstein 2015-2019
This is an entry for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales #142 – 25 June 2019
I roam the slums of a jungle;
It is hot and I am always thirsty.
I drink from the
fountain marked
Colored;
It’s magic quenches
my thirst.
At 3 AM savage
sophisticates
jabber and howl.
“Who do you love most,” asks God.
“Jayne Mansfield,” says Max.
“And why is that?” God is so cleverly all-knowing.
“She’s dead.” Max replies.
***
(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2017 All Rights Reserved
