A Short Poem About Nirvana for My Impatient Stuards


David Letterman is awesome! Oh … tonight?
I didn’t watch the Foo Fighters tonight. I

was busy sparring with an old friend of mine.
Or is that friend of ours? One of those is right.

Luckily we know which is witch: green, red or
other. Other as in the blue. That’s black and blue.

It’s all in the music. Give it a listen.
I talked to Cort last night and she said, “Mention

Kublai Kahn. I love God and it’s a man! Duh!”
I suppose I was wrong. Well … wrong-ish. You know, right?

Ever drink the sediment in the bottom
of a bottle of homemade I.P.A.? Gross.

Still, it tastes so good going down, doesn’t it?
Ahhhhhhhhhh, followed by a bunch of steps and shit. No?

Wait, you don’t know what I mean? Stop reading! Stop!
This poem is clearly not for you. I mean…

Duh! That’s what my ex always used to say to
me as I unwrapped and devoured Whoppers,

wolfing onion rings and chicken sang-witches
at a place Dane Cook called the B.K. Lounge. Oh!

Yeah! Remember that guy? He’s like Seth MacFar-
Land’s end, that’s where we’re headed now. All one way.

Up. All of us. Your color does not matter.
Your God is a man in a telephone book

who’s home right now watching season finales
of shows like Dexter and Orange is the New

Black. I? I’m not your man, unless you’re my God.
My God digs the music and has bright blue eyes.

Our God. Yours and mine, brothers and sisters. It’s time
for me to talk about Nirvana, and so…

Dave Grohl. There’s a talented fellow. I mean,
The only one better might be Eric Clap-

Tons of people think he stole George’s wife, right?
That ain’t right. George was looking for a way out.

George was a dork. Look at him by Bob Dylan.
Bob loved him, but he hated him. Well … yeah. They

were friends. They accepted each other’s faults. They
loved each other, as people. As friends. Through God.

They did not fuck each other’s brains out all night,
get up and say … thanks for the shots to the eye.

God in Heaven! Who would do such a thing? Si?
Comprende? My Spanish teacher’s name Freshman

year was Mrs. Hardy … and she was a true
fine, upstanding woman. A bit uptight? Sure.

I used to tap her on the arm when she was
not looking. And she hated that. And I knew.

That’s why I did it. I was playing with you,
Senora. Senorita. Aye Carumba!

I thought it was funny as hell. Didn’t you?
Tommy and Jimmy and Blake and Goodie Josh:

I hope you know how awesome it was working
with each and every one of you. I’m honored.

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m on my way to
the beach or the graveyard. I’m not sure yet. Which

one should I choose? I hear nothing. What? You lose.
Pick up that fucking pair of clown shoes, asshole

and get your tiny-toed, cock-a-doodle-ass
the hell out of my home. Who’m I talking to?

Whoever it is, I have no beef with you.
I just want to go home, man. Don’t you? Perk up.


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