Poetry requires a special diet.
A cannibal ate a boiled ruffian for breakfast,
thinking that doing so would count as fiber.
Along with it, he also drank a cup of coffee;
the swig of hot Joe was his insurance policy.
Meanwhile, in the nearby grassy savanna,
a hungry lioness and cubs rejected eating
a poet because he complained too much
and was contaminated by lots of junk food.
The Lord of the Flies is not even a housefly,
but if he were, he’d land on your food, too.
Arm yourself with spray, then sip a glass of
chilled chardonnay with a real glass shard.
So say a couch potato, a rocking chair beet,
a loveseat carrot, and the wing seat parsnip
after finding the root cause of our problems:
We increasingly spend our lives vegged out.
Come here for raw poetry — that’s the story.
Don’t over-season or over-cook your verse.
Lastly, do not grill rhymes over a flame and
don’t heat metallic words in the microwave.