What’s happened to the poem as poem, Sneaky Pete?
What’s happened to the poem as poem?

            It’s crossing the Pacific
            In an underwater sky lab,
            In a cute little butane box
            ln a gizmo way down there.

            And the shitty air smells pretty
            To us old-time gringos,
            But our loop-the-loop-the-loop biplane
            Isn’t used to the tundra.

            So push a little harder
            Till the gizmo acts frisky
            With multi-colored fissures
            That widen as you walk.

     Rush-hour joggers brush against me
     Whispering of nightmarish accessories.

What’s happened to the poem as poem, Sneaky Pete?
What’s happened to the poem as poem?

            It’s dangling from a black hole
            In a Golden Oldie time warp,
            In a fun little gunnysack
            In a doodad way up here.

     Yin. The cute die in summer.
     Yang. Dark out and the curtain’s stuck.

There’s a Papa Doc sunset
On my “That’s All, Folks!” burnoose.
No touchee! Its naked loins
Turn young lungs puce.

Jes’ keep your lips on the siphon, hon.
I’m movin’ back to town.

Back where the poem as poem’s gone,
Back where the poem’s gone.
Back where the poem as poem’s gone.
Back where the poem’s gone.