imk
during my colonoscopy I thought about you
bad words between us long past
it’s not fair
you can’t fight now
it’s what you get for dying first
I talked to a ghost
was it you?
we’d never really talked before like humans do
now you’re not human anymore
your poems . . . almost
not the worst
wishing you love and the dignity of night
the awards committee
don’t expect too much from the awards committee
the award is a piano at the bottom of the sea
the awards committee is a congress of cocksuckers
when you accept an award you become an object, less human than you were a few seconds before
look, never give an award to anyone unless you wish to insult them . . . what a slap in the face!
I hear a person boasting about their award, I get embarrassed for them for humanity
don’t get longlisted . . . malarkey!
if you get shortlisted, go get that katana from that other poem I wrote and start chopping off heads
if someone tries to give me an award, I’ll tell him: “you little rat . . .”
sure, this will aggrieve people who’ve gotten awards
buddy nobody even read your manuscript
request: if you are on an awards committee, resign!
find useful work in your community
sincerely, me
E. A. Bourland lives in Washington D.C. with his wife, their three children, and her cat. His web site is www.hwaet.com.