Twenty-Seventh Post

Wow. I'm still homeless. Don't that beat the dutch.

I'm reading at the Ear Inn on Saturday(?) October 15th with Shanna Compton and Danielle Pafunda. I know a little about the readers but I have a feeling that they will be packing the house. So I want all you die-hard Steve fans not including my mom to be there! It is free after all. Here's the link: http://www.mbroder.com/ear_inn/index.html Also, if Ali M. from CSF is reading this, gimme your email! Let's catch up.

Here's my poem:

THE BODY OF THE PAPER

The arms of the paper are flimsy and swing if blown upon.
Arms that do not bend, and have little muscle to them.
That muscle which holds the head above the stake-like wooden fences.
Muscle formed of protein instead of logical phrasing.
Formed in 1911, Gold’s Gym is a proprietor of free verse poetry.
In free verse poetry, the size of the weight is less important.
Free to use any weight he likes, the poet begins with the leg press.
To the untrained observer the legs are merely thoughtless couriers.
The poet knows the legs are similes of a variety of flimsy images.
Poet Ralph Waldo Emerson, donned in a paper suit, worked out every day.
“Ralph,” he would say in his mind, and while flexing pondered his name.
He stretched his meager legs pointing his little toes toward the stars.
Stretched paper out on his desk and wrote one of those famous poems.
Paper covers my muscles in lieu of skin, damn you mom!
Covers of Emerson’s books show him in muscular poses under the moon.
Of his books I can only say this: those poems need to work out more.
His comment on my poems: “Poems of a weakling who cannot hold a pen.”
Comment on this rivalry if you like, but be prepared to back it up.
On that note I challenge any poet to a boxing match.
That match will be won by the writer with thicker forearms.