Summer of 1982, I think,
the San Francisco Public Library
was sponsoring some sorta poetry contest,
so I took a quart of Olde English 800
to the Panhandle (a block from my flat
on Clayton) and wrote ‘Ode to Bullwinkle’
on the brown paper bag.
“This is great, and I am a great great poet”
I thought when I had finished,
and immediately thereafter
a cop gave me a ticket for public drinking.
I also didn’t win the contest.
Ode to Bullwinkle
The eyes of a three-year old are burned The method by which we tykes become learned Who would have thought? The secrets of our world Be taught by a moose and spunky squirrel? O Sterling steed Hey antler breath Your praises we sing nigh But to your rabid rodent friend May he fly in a Cuisinart and die What do we know of Cold War dear But from a couple of cartoon spies One was short with a mustache The other had marvelous thighs Imperialist fascist bastard squirrel I spit on you— Ptui!!!! For I am a political dilettante And live on beans and ratatouille