An Ode to Guy Fieri’s
American Exceptionalism and Flavortown
Dear Reader.
The best and brightest,
American Exceptionalism,
Rising above in a rocket blast of red-white-and-blue,
Flavortown.
Houston—we have zero problems.
You use the metric system?
Fuck you.
Metric system doesn’t land on the moon,
Or get you to Flavortown.
Kid Rock and Roman candles and Beef & Cheddars and Bigfoot and Coca-Cola and Harley-Davidson.
Our guide is a spiky haired blessed profit leading us, onward,
To Flavortown.
A Triple Gordita Haiku
Night sanctuary,
Purple neon bell of refuge,
Welcoming embrace.
Cheesy Gordita,
Crunch of my contented heart,
Flavor overload.
Glen Bell’s creation,
A 1954 birth,
Drive-In and Taco.
Taylor Swift is an Alien
The legs of a gazelle,
The face of a statue,
The posture of a Soldier,
The Voice of the Aoede,
The Muse of Song.
The stage presence of a Yeti.
Lithe and resolute,
Every song, an expression of pain.
How could John Mayer leave an angel?
And now they have bad blood.
She was far too good for him, anyway.
My daughter,
A lover of Swift’s music,
An acolyte.
Swift was sent from another dimension to shove bop into our ears.
And she may be the best there ever was.
I’m tired of the teen-pop repetition,
But I shall,
Shake It Off.
The Smurfs are a White-Supremacist Fever Dream
I hate to tell you in a beat-generation-inspired free-verse poem,
But I must.
Papa Smurf is the leader,
Of a band of Racial Purists,
In a male-dominated society,
That all wear pointy white hats,
Except the Grand Wizard who wears red.
Who all fight,
A horrible racist stereotype,
Portrayed with a huge nose and eager for power and money.
This big-nosed monster wants to exploit the pure race for his own enrichment,
And only the honorable pointy white hat wearers can stop him.
Fuck your childhood.
Or maybe it is just a cartoon.
Twitter is Going to Ruin my Life
The online outrage,
Is something to behold,
I want to wade in,
But I am not that stupid,
But I know I will—
One day.
That day is when I will regret,
Ever getting online,
But Twitter gave me a writing community,
That my true-life cannot.
A fleeting whisp of something more,
As I live the day to day work,
Of an office drone.
It is something greater to me,
But that is foolish,
Because it will crush me.
Under a huge foot.
One day.
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Alien Buddha Press 