taunts of bad hair boy-men
transfix the play yard.
mine is bigger. no mine. look.
there is no alternative channel
for the cartoon among nations.
our smiley wiley has
chased some tail
feather off a cliff
and stands now unbound by ground,
animation suspended.
’tis only a matter of time
until
the forces of nature
overcome their shock at the effrontery
and shame gravity to reassert its
inevitable grasp on matter and mass.
But what then goes before the fall?
This abyss extends how deep?
And whose tongue flip says meep-meep?