BREAKING THE TIRED MOLD OF AMERICAN POETRY
by Ruth Stone
Page 10
ORANGE POEM PRAISING BROWNThe quick brown poem jumped over the lazy woman.
There it goes flapping like an orange with peeling wings.
Like an old dried orange with hard peel wings.
The thick brown poem jumped over the desperate woman.
There you go my segments, my divided fruit, escaping.
The thick woman jumped over the lousy poem. It's Brown,
she sighed.
Watch it, the poem cried. You aren't wearing any pants.
The empty places of the poem. The odor of the poem.
Brown approached. Praise my loose hung dangle, he said.
Tell me about myself in oral fragments.
Refer to Brown. Not you. Not her.
The thick lenses through which the poem lurks.
Come, says the poem, see my harmless teeth. Kiss my vicious
lips.
Rising in the greasy air, the orange poem heavy with brown
goes to the dump. It does not even like the taste of itself.
The thick typewriter jumps over the lazy poet.
You have not yet praised Brown, it said, and you
call yourself a poet. Jump over that.
