Imitation

I am hungry

is the animal mantra.

The green umbrella

could be a tree,

the frog, a green knot

on the screen door.

I must mow

is the human mantra.

The bee salsa

dances on the anther,

the crow, a charcoal stub

flattened on asphalt.

I am thirsty

says everything.

As the cloud yanks up,

the aquifer yanks down.

A baffled brown bear

chews on an iPhone,

but only us

and sometimes dogs

wear sunglasses

and act cool.

Interdisciplinary Poet

I scratched a sentence onto a wooden table, snapped a photo, and sent it to a lit mag.

I designed conceptual Instagram posts, posted them to Instagram, and they became post-conceptual.

I wrote eighty pages of faux bios all beginning with “I have an interdisciplinary personality.”

I created an olfactory poem by farting silently during a poetry recital.

I named myself the wizard of yum.

I created a new discipline called Lacannaise. It’s very unhealthy, but – you know – tasty.

I egged the mayor of New Orleans and was murdered by the Wisner Trust.

I ate six saltine crackers in 60 conceptual seconds. I could’ve done more.

I used props in my poetry bit, and I bit poets that held the props: jumpscare poetry, I called it.

I mixed disciplines but forgot my ratios and ended up with French Onion soup.

I wrote a menu for a restaurant with super-mean language. They’re not bankrupt yet.

I challenged how cool it was to write “interdisciplinary” on a C.V. and hiring committees disciplined me.

I became interdisciplinary in one discipline. This went unloved.