Archive
12/18/08 - (1)
Writin' Fool
He's just a writin' fool (no roundabout doubt about it), Schmuel Schwartzbaum, the sofer of his own holy roller's soul, A mean mo-fo with a penchant for his notebook and pen — An army-fatigue-green Boorum & Pease 66-150-R, if you please, A medium-point-blue Bic Cristal, specifically speaking.
Oh, yeah, to say that he's a bloviator's bloviator Is to sell him short, short-change his reputation as a bullshitsmith, A prestidigitator in the dark arts of prolixity and garrulity. Indeed, he can churn out words like cascades of turds Unleashed from a constipated world addicted to Ex-Lax.
As for peer-juried accolades he's garnered for his masterpieces, Those exceedingly few of which he modestly boasts, All are fictitious, fabricated out of the superheated air Issuing from his logorrheic tongue and lips — Multiple Nobels, Pulitzers, Bookers, Pushcarts, MacArthurs.
As for his myriad best-selling poetry tomes... Well, they can't actually be found in bookstores or cyberspace. To read one is to suspend disbelief, imagine it, from scratch, In a kind of act of virtual original creation, on his behalf. He contends that all his books burned in the Library of Alexandria.
Though he's grown old, dreaming of, one day, breaking his Bic, Shredding his ubiquitous empty Boorum & Pease, calling it quits, He reminds his mean-mo-fo-holy-roller-bloviator-sofer soul That he's a poet to the end, just a writin' fool, Every day, after his medication makes the pink elephants fly away.
12/18/08 - (1)
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