Aim, Misfired

What's the reading level of your audience,
elitist rag, using student funded dollars
to cloak words in riddles and devices
to delight and surprise the Sunday crossword
composers? I'm taking aim at this mastery
to craft the clever ditty that to you looks shitty.

I take aim at those words published by others
with names not germane to this region
and wonder how many of me are left in the woods
with our rifles and cheap fifths of something
soaked in gray beards as we squint and aim
and hope not to kill one another? Your rag
would make an outdoorsman shit with spectacular
color, take aim at those words not germane.
Perhaps, ink some words on those bathroom stalls
with the deer heads and other antlered things
on the walls. And in full orange gear, do not fear
ridicule for being a fool like others on bar stools.

Plenty of interesting stories go ‘round here, not ones
examining spineless self-worth to jellyfish in coral reef,
on self-illuminating expedition to inner light, in starless night.
So, where is this all going but down with a yank? I do not
share scribbles among your heavenly scholars scribing
multi-syllablic words not heard in a century, compose
with such fashion that eyes flutter off before the
seventeenth comma in elaborate, one sentence ‘graph.

I read, compelled, and wonder: should I understand this all?
as my words take aim at a shitty web wall, hoping
not too small for the audience tripping over this mic cord.


29 lines, free verse