The poet awoke before dawn, but he didn’t but his boots on. Instead, he wore dark glasses. “To see the stars better,” he said, but we saw him on the beach with them, staring into tits. His appearance was scrawny, skinny. This, of course, was from the sheer enjoyment of constant word-sparkling vision upon him that he simply forgot to be hungry. Yet we saw him on the jogging path on the way to the pay gym with the other yuppies.
So, when he says how he’s struggled all these years and, in a letter to a girl who actually likes him (she lives 3,000 miles away), writes that, since it didn’t get him anywhere, it’s time to put a more practical application upon his great god-sent gift for words. Yes, you’ve guessed it, he’s into advertising.
He practices on her. You hair is very, uh, dark, my love. But not so dark as Snappy’s Typewriter Ribbon. Wow, what a success! Even though it returns to that anachronistic form of the sentence, it does things that no poet has really done yet: incorporates advertising into poetry. What a bold discovery! At last, it can now reach the readers of Philadelphia magazine, and with comic relief, it’ll be such a well-rounded nourishment. And, economically, a miracle!
Surely, this is the dawning of the new age.
Surely, she’ll leave him for a Marxist.
– Chris Stroffolino