I.

dusk streaks the sky in pink, like a pervert.

speaking thus of perverts:

paolini.

he and his dragon lass seek the evil galbatorix, scourge of over-the-counter laxatives in many a foreign land.

“his vocabulary is so large!” the reporter cries, a bard in the desert. the biggest word used by the hero:

“wonderful.”

you know who else uses wonderful? Lindsay Lohan. and my five-year-old niece.

II.

reporters.

fluttering like toilet paper in a breeze upon the mountain, they claim, “people have said that his books are derivative…but we’re not going to question him.”

ask, dear poet.

i’d love to hear him exercise that huge vocabulary and tell us why anne mccaffrey should not be filing suit.

III.

he has a “pile of ideas.”

a big, stinking pile of other people’s ideas that have been fermenting in his backyard, waiting for him to mold the rich compost of themes into an endless, badly-written story featuring a creepy and way-too-intimate representation of his sister.

cold plums on the counter.

night falls.