Poetry

Sean Penn Anti-Ode

by Dean Young

Must Sean Penn always look like he’s squeezing

the last drops out of a sponge and the sponge

is his face? Even the back of his head grimaces.

Just the pressure in his little finger alone

could kill a gorilla. Remember that kid

whose whole trick was forcing blood into his head

until he looked like the universe’s own cherry bomb

so he’d get the first whack at the piñata?

He’s grown up to straighten us all out

about weapons of mass destruction

but whatever you do, don’t ding his car door with yours.

Don’t ask about his girlfriend’s cat.

Somewhere a garbage truck beeps backing up

and in these circumstances counts as a triumph of sanity.

Sleet in the face, no toilet paper,

regrets over an argument, not investing wisely,

internment of the crazy mother, mistreatment

of laboratory animals.

Life, my friends, is ordinary crap.

Pineapple slices on tutu-wearing toothpicks.

Those puke bags in the seatback you might need.

The second DVD only the witlessly bored watch.

Some architectural details about Batman’s cape.

Music videos about hairdos, tattoos, implants and bling.

The crew cracking up over some actor’s flub.