THE CATERPILLAR POEM

THE CATERPILLAR POEM


I begin to see my life in terms of caterpillars.

For getting up in the morning, I deserve three caterpillars.

The bowel movement, or lack thereof, gets two caterpillars.

For starting another novel, the inner critic shoots me a finger, i.e. one lousy caterpillar.

For being faithful to my wife for three years: five caterpillars.

For sending poems to literary magazines: a dozen cocoons in the branches of a wild cherry tree.

For gazing at porn: an erection made out of 3,622 caterpillars.

For making it all the way to the end of this poem: the windows of my soul shall be covered by caterpillars.

For exchanging pleasantries with my neighbor, I award myself four baby caterpillars which I eat like potato chips before throwing up.

For the fucked-up song in my heart: three leeches disguised as caterpillars.

For all the useless stars in the virtually heavenless world: an asterisk.

For my contempt which art an appropriate blight on this universe of immature insects, there aren’t enough caterpillars in the world.

And for Ebony, my favorite whore, my entire collection of pennies.