This poem is not a product.
They had the same problem
with the poison apple
that was not a cartoon,
the suicide not a television movie,
the poet who was not
an Evil Queen holding
a cartoon apple
out, in a withered hand
towards the audience,
the poet who was not suicidal,
who was not a cartoon
jaundiced beautifully
by unreality,
Sylvia Plath or Disney,
the diva poet
who insisted on the glass coffin
anyway, just like Michael Jackson.
Waiting. The poem apparently
just like Michael Jackson,
asleep in a deceptive transparency.
Still waiting today. Royally gay.
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