Just popped the collar of my robe in this motherfucker,
I.e. kitchen, as I make some sweet-ass hash browns.
Is that the start of a poem? It’s barely the start of breakfast.
Noon light comes streaming through the window.
Is that the start of a poem? My landlady—what a word—
Just told me to be out of here by July 1. At first I wrote
Just told me to be out of her. Slightly different poem.
The millionaires buying her brownstone, milling past me
As I cranked this up in my robe at this motherfucker,
I.e. dining table, wondering if it could indeed be a poem,
Demand it. I’m gonna squat right here in this kitchen,
I.e. motherfucker, with my million-dollar syntax and hash browns
And make those motherfuckers mill around me for life.
I’ll miss this motherfucking beautiful neighborhood
Of Whitman & Auden & Crane & Mailer & McCullers
& Miller & Miller & Smith & Wolfe & motherfucker
How many more writers could live in these brownstones?
How many more ampersands could live in contemporary poetry?
Now there are probably no writers here except me.
Oh, and little known former Poet Laureate of America
Phil Levine on Willow St. And fellow Asian American male poet
Ken Chen, also on Willow St. I wonder if they too pop the collars
Of their robes as they make some sweet-ass hash browns.
Mailer surely popped the collar of his robe. He probably
Put on boxing gloves to take his hash browns out of the oven.
Hart Crane I can’t see ever making, let alone eating, hash browns.
Just too much cranium to contain in one kitchen.
Whitman couldn’t have eaten just one hash brown, or two,
He had to be making whole schools of hash browns,
40,000 hash browns forked with 40,000 motherforking forks.
He would’ve written about all the potato fields they came from,
Sunsets over the cool brown earth that made their beds.
Henry Miller likely would’ve fucked his hash browns.
Auden would’ve had his hash browns at an appropriate time
Scheduled into the morning. Last night I talked about
That motherfucker’s face. What a motherfucking poet’s face.
Was Auden ever young? Did he come out of his mother’s vagina
Already wrinkled? Imagine that vagina. Auden’s face
Like a hash brown out of that vagina. I’m feeling better,
In spring, in this motherfucking beautiful light. I’m dancing
In this motherfucker, i.e. kitchen, as I flip these hash browns
And think I can start to begin to forget you some day.