A lusty, dusty thing

full of high sentence and self-righteousness

whose shape is always never shown aright.

A rusty, muscular machine

whose metaphor is everyone’s to buy;

full of cobwebs, or in flame enclosed,

a list of names

written in stone

and then crossed out.

A light, almost incorporeal thing

that every child can identify

and that flutters at the sight

of the most perfect ’91 girl

and her muscle-car heart

that beats in time with yours.

Be cool, be cool.

Have the strength to delay the moment

a little longer.

Penned perfectly by men

with dollar-signs in their eyes,

or put on a pedestal

by children who watch too many cartoons,

it really just pumps blood.

Be cool, damn you.

It means whatever you want it to.

It’s one document

(either a big poem or a list of names

crossed out in stone),

and that’s all.

But should I have the temerity

to say just what I mean?

After some talk of T.S. Eliot,

some dressing and undressing,

and an awful guessing game—

after this and more,

could I say just what I mean?

Be cool, be cool.

Beat a little slower, now.

I’m ready for this sort of thing again.