fall 2015 / Poetry 2015

My Kids’ Favorite Things — Anton Jones

I am a colossal

heaping mash of

gorilla shit

gently

roasting in a

raging dumpster fire.

I know you

are too, but

I will criticize

myself since it is

considered intolerant and oppressive

to be as

rude as your

mother, may she rest in peace,

and by peace I mean

getting syringes

filled with lemon juice

shoved under her coiled claws.

Do I have your attention now?

Good.

You’re talking to a poem.

Fuck you.

You took my

kids away from me,

gave them a piggy-back ride

and camped in a forest

on the opposite coast.

Now all I can do

is drink

until the mosquitoes avoid my blood,

until my liver quits and the bile

starts to accumulate

at the back of my throat,

clogging my airway.

Is this how these things work?

Do I drowned in my self-pity until the

audience applauds?

I needed to get a hobby

to keep my mind away

from plotting your demise

where I find my Nemos

and that dentist’s brat of a niece dies.

Goddamn.

This is boring.

Is this really how people choose to

cope with their shit?

Sit and write?

There are no fucking results!

You know what my kids did?

They jousted with giant sticks

and had so much fun that

they forgot it hurt

to get hit with a big-ass stick.

I tried picking up origami

but that turned into me

imagining you flattened

folding your paper bones

and tossing my mess into the fire place.

I tried collecting baseball cards

only to envision me

with a bloody bat

and you

missing your face.

I tried building

my dreams out of

Legos

but my foot kept being punctured

by the pieces I left forgotten

in our shag rug.

So I took up drinking

when my adult grew up.

And this is where I bow

for playing the part of

a tall kid in a tree suit.

Back then, I drank to feel alive.

Now, as you know, I drink to forget that we’re shit.

But very soon, I will just drink

and black-out the days I drink to die.

Aside from that,

it’s a wonderful day

to complain.

Now stop reading this and fly a

damn kite or something.

And now, Mr. Fucking Therapist,

give me my fucking

participation award!

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