I waded through page after page
of broken verse
of angry grumbles
about unappreciative husbands
or old classmates
or
the lesbian grunts and growls
of anger anger anger or
some excruciatingly explicitly
biological confessional gay porn
mixed in with
the ingrateful poetic hand-bites
of adult children who clearly wished
their parents
had stayed
in whatever third-world pesthole
they’d originally come from
all topped-off with
scoop upon glop of thick word salad
of the sort produced
by stroke and closed-head injury patients
who
are struggling to remember
precisely the right words to
express exactly bungalow torpid giraffe.