Fortune Cookie

It is Nation­al Poet­ry month, stimpy. So I’m gonna crap out poems from time to time in lieu of writ­ing oth­er crap instead. I make no claims on the qual­i­ty of any­thing that appears, since I’m going to give myself no more than a half hour on each. Work­shop ’em if you want; rewrite ’em if you want; ignore ’em if you want. And remem­ber to write your own stuff for my con­test!

You catch the film at six;
three Chi­nese chil­dren
blood spread like duck sauce
on the walls-
cold fin­gers stiff
like chow mein noo­dles.

At sev­en you decide
on take-out; the deliv­ery boy
for­gets your duck sauce-
you don’t tip.

Eight o’clock and
you read your for­tune cook­ie:

They say
Cato com­mit­ted sui­cide
because he would not live under Cæsar.

Nein o’clock and all is well.