I once thought that life's what's left over after I extricate myself from the mess. I was writing a poem about paying attention and microwaved a hot dog so hot it burned a beet-red hole in the roof of my mouth. Lucrezia Borgia got shit on her fingers by not paying attention. Chanting a sutra, the monk stepped fatally on the viper's tail. Every gun is loaded and cocked. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SELF-DEPENDENCE by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE WAY TO ARCADY by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER ODE INSCRIBED TO W.H. CHANNING by RALPH WALDO EMERSON AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE by THOMAS HARDY TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE by ELLEN O'LEARY BIRDS by NESTA HIGGINSON SKRINE SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 1 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY |