The Straightest of Poop

Poem to Explosions

I was running in the heat through thirteen miles of country paradise,
rolling hills and green meadows and fresh summer air.
With the sun beating down and the wind in my face
reminding me of every uncomfortable step.

I saw a pile of chocolate chip pancakes
stacked to the ceiling and oozing
with chocolately chipities melting in pools of
maples upon maples of syrups.

I fired up a 3.75 horsepower pressure-washer
to blast clean the grime and scum
from rock and wood
and make the backyard shimmer and shine.

And on top of the hill overlooking this tiny valley city
I shouted out, "Where are the giant fighting robots!?
Where are the explosions and implosions and destructions
and the whistling of shells falling like rain?"

Fields of flames and hot breakfasts on fire!
Burning sugar and molten sweetness,
splattering blasts of sputtering batter
because explosions are happening for no reason!

With wide-eyed wonder and bowels clenched tight

I watched waves of unnecessary explosions explosions explosions
and dire struggles for the fate of humanity
while hauling out rocks from the garden.

I'm bored, America!
You brought me the internet!
The least you owe me is things blowing up,
overloads and meltdowns of energy and information in a diabolical network,

or at least something interesting to read.