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PrintWhack Job
September 16, 2011
The page was locked to me.
No escape— like Houdini’s
personal hell. I tap danced
across every thin, pale blue line,
I examined it,
flipped it, spun it and shook
the page—but no words fell
loose. So I slipped in my tongue
and tickled the tumblers, exhaled
vocal graphite that slid
open the conundrum—verbiage
spilled like machine gun
casings— hit the sheet
with a splatter of ink
and left it wet as Santino’s chest—
from the Godfather
movie. I whacked this poem,
good. Nothing left but the clean up.
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