Let’s toss off in your mouth about the poet’s snobbery. Picture the poet: studio head for a day. Merry Christmas. His piss in your charities. The revenue loss. The PR disaster. The Enemy Mine of industry. The productions of a million new Putney Swope-s. Les Blank-style recasting of all actors. The ending of There Will Be Blood in perpetuum behind the scenes. More than two women directors. Union assassins snapping California off its axis – dropped like a health pill into the ocean. Him really appreciating how many times he’s hanged. Nope, the reality is James Franco has a book of majorly-distributed, tastefully-balanced, intentionally-said, well-plotted, kind-of-quietude, kind-of-tasteful, good-intentioned, strong-closing, gender-appropriate, Jack Gilbert-restrained, but stumblingly-confessional, toolkit workshop poems. Nothing about this person’s life is capable of experiencing censorship. That’s fine. I can giggle through some grab-ass. I’ll stuff down the jelly until I might afford the high tech weaponry necessary to wield it. Oh, did they divert the taints? T’was some minor poet’s critique via deep web language-terrorism? Nope, it was surplus political bullshit for the news. Enjoy your ten billionth suppositionally buzzfed red-state blue-state cocksuck bicker of a click bait talk point, you fucking anti-brummagem, self-dignified, faux-responsible nation fulla rat-minded adults. The more you care the more shit still won’t matter! Anyway, sure it was a coward’s move by rich racists. What isn’t? Shucks, you know the only racism worth a damn comes from poverty. I like Franco when he’s silly. I kinda wanna make him smear his robe. He causes me to feel erotic as football. I am not convinced he’s of a race. That’s how well I regard the sun. When he smiles, every conviction turns a little gray. It’s the kind of smile that says talk to me during business hours. Sometimes you need an electric blanket of a flick right around your hangover, a buffer ‘gainst the elbow grease ‘a trudging forth, a lithe ferret to rub your past dues on. Even I’m down to a 36 waist, ladies. Too bad I got the posture of a burn victim and a face only, well, it’s somewhat influenced by the sharp undercarriage of a fence, inwardly dented and is roundishly corpse-like. People tailgate and honk at me as soon as I leave my driveway or I am fined and arrested if caught going fast enough to not be tailgated. The car is borrowed and about to die. The fucking driveway is borrowed, too. I have a Band-Aid-sized graduate degree and it is about to be 2015. Lately, I was called pussy for refusing to eat part of a large sandwich. Guess why I’m a happy person, though? Because when I call the Franco types cunts it is the rare occasion in which I am absolutely correct.
Sean Kilpatrick (1983), raised in Detroit, published in Boston Review, BOMB, New York Tyrant, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review,evergreen review, did the books fuckscapes, Anatomy Courses (with Blake Butler) and Gil the Nihilist. His first novella Sucker June, is forthcoming from Lazy Fascist in 2015. http://sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.
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