Avoid

Avoid unicorns on crystal meth and Kundera. Avoid clocks shaped like that Japanese divinity cat who holds up his fist like Stokely Carmichael and who haunts Chinese buffets. Avoid lovers who can slip out of a sweater while eating a sandwich. Avoid rivers that begin with the letter O, or which appear in a poem by John Ashbery. Avoid girls posing too close to sunflowers or Mazeratis or asshole judges. Avoid poets who write love letters in the snow by pissing. Avoid the clever step your poems want to take like a Hitchcock heroine at the three-quarters point. Avoid the disbelief at the creamy center of the labial rose which is always purring that it alone is modern art. No, disregard that. Lick it. Take that in your mouth and swirl it around. Give it a tongue bath. Tug on it gently like a reindeer's lips will nuzzle moss below the Lapp snow. Lap it up. That thing at the center. Female peduncle. Disbelief. Mind-shattering. All dewy and shit. Secretional as fuck. That's modern art. But avoid the rest of that shit.