This poem is called "The World," and I feel like--
I generally try not to read tons of the news,
and then write poems.
But this poem, I had been reading lots of the news,
and I felt like I couldn't keep it out of my poems any longer.
So this is kind of an explosion of news.
It's called "The World."
"The world is reaching into you, deeper and faster and cheaper
than ever before.
So what do you hope for?
An afternoon spent alone with porn?
Do we live in a world of bodies or not?
If the falling trees don't kill the chimps, the lack of habitat
will.
They squawk as they swing from branch to branch, o-o-o-awak!
With those miraculous hands, the butterflies
killed off by the new-wave pollen.
You can't hug a Nazi, and hope he'll change.
What's more, such an idea is an affront to national security.
A child stands O-mouthed in a doorway learning evil,
a bomb makes more shrapnel if it explodes on cement.
So never let your guard down, not for one minute.
Everything is muted and blue, the tip-tap of creation
seems cloudy, not crisp.
And words know nothing more than I do, or they're not telling.
I grew one seed, I cultivated one thing, a Christ-baby,
who is what he eats.
A small hot thing is an animal that smells good.
But the good must be sealed off from the bad and the bad
from the good.
Otherwise, a ghoulish black vein might creep up
to the otherwise healthy pink brain.
But the earth is molten, and it is made of moods.
So go ahead, blow it up.
Blow it up, your mouth full of love, and anger,
and white-gold milk.
A crack of infinity will pulse on in one glistening ovary.
So believe me, it's the voice of a miserable motherfucker that
whispers to you, 'You cannot realize your world.'"