ON A CERTAIN TYPE OF POETRY FOR
SELF-ACTUALIZING INDIVIDUALS
WITH A NERVOUS ITCH
 

I'm Tony the Leaf,
   freaking out in the grass,
waiting for Mama and Papa Bear
   to bring me some heroin--

Yes, I'm Tony the Leaf,
   lying against the blue sky
   in my dry loneliness and paralysis.

Fetch me a whore,
   fetch me a star
   amidst the dark blue ocean
      of corrupt insurance salesmen.

I'm Tony the Leaf,
   waiting for the next few thousand
      white elephants
to trample me with their feet.

I'm bizarre, I know,
   and I speak very little French or Polish,
     and I have little originality--

I'm a self-actualizing Leaf
   and I'm sensitive enough not to say
      fuck you to you all in the morning.

I follow the precision of clocks
   with rigidity of robots
and I have millions of hang-ups that I
   have actualized already.

Look at me! Now I kiss your ass--
   it is deep dark purple.

I'm a snake in your cookie jar,
   I'm a social parasite,
      I'm much worse than an insurance
           salesman--

I do my social work of making you
   all the same,
   all unoriginal and sterile--
I want to actualize your indifference,
I want to sing my silly songs,
I want to break your bellies in two
   and watch your contortions in the gutter.

I will speak to you of love,
I will speak to you of snow
and I will analyze your bloody handwriting.

Yes, I'm a lousy scribbler of pathetic poems,
   which I will give you dime a dozen,
   jumping through your chimney
   like an intoxicated Santa Claus.

I will smooch you to death,
I will pour gasoline into your stove
and I will throw up in your living room
   on your piss-yellow carpet.

I know nothing of Frank Zappa
   and I don't masturbate,
I'm a fat womanizer
   with false teeth and a briefcase
   full of blues.

Look for me in your mailbox,
   I deliver what you want to hear--
   every lie on the pages of Sports Illustrated
   and every calendar girl to get your rocks off.

I'm a menstrual cycle of the Moon
   and I will bleed all over your motorcycle seat,
I'm a cure for your hemorrhoids
   and a nightmare to your ear.

Like a slow-acting poison
   I will enter the ear of Hamlet's father.

Look at me! Now I'm gone.

I'm Tony the Leaf, a freaked out
   New Age salesman of dreams.
Pick one at a price of a dollar.
 

                                           December 27, 1987
                                        --Alexander Shaumyan