I'm going to read two more poems.
And you can trust me, because that's all I have up here.
[LAUGHTER]
I hate it, but it's true.
[LAUGHTER]
This is called "Glory."
And they're both rather short.
[LAUGHTER]
This is called "Glory."
"Some sadness has no origin, says the father
tying his son to a post.
I wake up asleep.
Most monkeys died of dislocations in the wild.
My remote, where is it?
Awful things have happened to Daffy Duck.
Was that the cause or result of his daffiness?
His bill blasted to the back of his head.
His eyes bounced around.
Deep inside his male-feathered brain
is the need to fuck or fuck up everything beautiful, even
the Parthenon.
Yet he returns again and again from what would kill and make
inedible an ordinary duck.
Is this too a power of daffiness?
How unlike like being a dead pharaoh,
which is damned serious business.
They lay you down and dig in.
Here's a lovely scarab-encrusted jar for your pancreas.
Here's a hook to pull your brain through your nose.
Not great for your slaves either,
strangled and pickled in lesser materials.
And lots of cats.
In the Valley of Eternals, you're perpetually in profile,
talking out of the side of your mouth to jackals.
The air smells of lilacs and barbed wire.
You enter the ballerina's lair."