Stormcloud-curtains roll back. To thunderous
applause, my face beams through. My ship's breezed in;
my train's chugged home. My airplane's made a three-point
landing on my Chief Detractor's head.
My pipes stop leaking. My dirty clothes don't stink.
My roof, about to wolf eight thousand clams,
repairs itself. The clams pledge allegiance
to me. The wolf does too. I pitch life's big
banana peel at a trashcan two football-leagues
away; it octopuses in. I frisbee
Death's lugubrious CD out the window.
Let it flying-saucer someone else's hair.
It's not my glass of Kool Aid; not my cup of pee.
Boo bop shoo wop / boo diddley op wham,
Boo dingbat / poodley at / doodley ap / scram,
That's what I say, so that's what everybody
does. Thank you Miss Simpson, who impeached me
as President of the Eighth Grade. Thank you
Jim Leatherwood, who made me hip-hop
out of my own band. And you, reviewer,
who turned my book into a frog and made it croak—
eat tsetse flies and die! I wish you well
eschewed. Well, well, well, well, it's really true.
It's happening. Can't stop me now—not you,
your parents, or your dog, not a congress
full of crooked lawyers (to tautologize),
not your good wishes or bad, your cash
or carrion, not Army, Navy, Air Force,
Aquamarines. Desert Storm was a zephyr
next to me. Look behind you. Look
ahead, above, below. Recognize
that profile, the cut of that jib,
jab of that jaw, jut of that collar, the scratched
glasses, rowdy hair, green Safari
Pants purchased in poorer times? I'll take
your Rolls. You take my bus, boy. I've arrived.