Woolly Mammoth Poem

So, we can call ourselves on the phone and burn the lettuce,

break coffee cups on chlorined tiles from the disco era.

I’m committed to proving the stupidity of others casually;

it’s easy if you just let them keep talking, no pauses.

I own like six things I could sell; my wallet does count too.

Near the unclosable door with a sick draft;

I keep all my scarves and stuff on indoors.

I might turn into a woolly mammoth under a river,

but I’m still all about the absurdity of caring about objects.

Popeye was kind of a jerk; Pepé Le Pew was (and still is) problematic,

but I’ll still kill folks (as long as I can do it from a trailer in Nevada).

There will be some story of my high score, validated by a committee

officially charged with confirming kills overseas (or even in Canada

and South America; it’s pretty much the same).

The mall security was messing with a clipboard,

and all of my stuff is in the back of your car, disappearing.

My good hand doesn’t function anymore;

“I’ll never play piano again,” (Wood Allen).

I might turn into a woolly mammoth under a river,

but I’m still all about the accuracy of caring about objects.

Heelflip some janky handicap ramp made of gravel,

where that hobo wrote a contract for your soul.

You dominated every location, spot, and hangout

then hitched rides to somewhere that did laundry (always).

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