© 2/10 by email@example.com
...if your poem is going to be so short, the substance of your subject has to be:
Like those 2 hundred and thirty-8 electrons packed into your molecular rhythm ‘round
that potent nuclei baked into your yellow cake,
You must pack your works and verks and verbs into a sphere–the most doable shape for constancy and efficacy of size and the nature of things–you can pack it with your hands. And it will spin forever, unlike a tortilla. That’s why Suns are round and all their itty-bitty pets, the planets, are balls they left strewn around the floor of 3-dimensional space so-to-speak.
[remembeRrrr, THERE ARE NO SQUARE PLANETS. YOU THE WRITER IS ALL(YAH)WAYS GOD ALLAHTIMEBUDDHA POTENT TIGHT N HOT.]
Packed even more tightly, under performance pressure, is your Nobel Peace Prize nitro-glycerine think paint–non-Gaian–over that the Nobel Dyno-mites, ageless, silvery, shiney dust mites for the Millenium.
I’d be eclectic and dyslectic if I didn’t say, Pick a City.
For mad max effect. Flip the switch and drop it in the water like a toaster, boaster.
Gods do not play around the donut, they drop it in the hole. Oh, yes they do, but only by incident. Gods are incident prone, ms Living Proof.
Da Russians never wood-ah bombed Chicago/Gary/Hammond In Diana (ohhhhh...) They wood-ah aimed at Lago Michicano, cue fade, the fog ensued for comport, e.z...wood-ah spared US (Morgan) Steel before he sold it off to China, for future exploitations. Remember full employment was their cause. Even Orange Krush-shiv–benevolent violent megalo- altruistic sonic splatterer believed in verk. Imagined gud ol’ Russian boys on ev’ry corner (a hunnert years later) passing out piroshkis to the warped survivors. Wood we ev had rock n roll or something like a dirge in short skirts in short stints? Wood dat’ev poisoned Who Dat Down Der? Say...do you have any gauze? I’m peelin’ in da South Side. But a little rain washes away the stench of bodies...
...is dat succinct enuff for sumpin’, muffin?
238 answers to your question:
whereas we cudda blown da top offa der Mt. Fuji, but we dint want ta ruin der future postcards.
Quiant and outmoded as that
j oy o f coo king
[Tight, see? Like a metaphoric tourniquet around their neck.]
But who said "short and sweet’ was better?
Not on our livesies!
You can fasten that to other sheeple, Little Boy!
We don’t care what we breathe! and here comes China.
[when it’s short it’s gotta be cogent pithy nitty gritty somequick lil ditty the right size n speed for any City.]
Then it’s over.