dear mr cummings:it gives me
no joy
to think that you
and "your blue eyed boy"
both belong to a vase of flowers
that young death bought
while i am stuck on this fucking
planet having to
capitalize my poetry
because (a critic accuses)
it's not my own
i e -- an e e cummings clone
if i were smarter i'd spit out excuses
like the one that the typing cock
roach:archy uses
and to think that buffalo bill
and the not-so-defunct-you
are both upon a window sill
in a vase of flowers
that young death bought
for a lady named
afterwords
(who
just happens to be
hopefully plucking
petals from a screee-
!ming forget-me-naught