My Cheesecake Factory tweets have made
the national news. Not since Joyce or Proust
has language by its little self produced
such wild invention; Xerxes in the piney shade
couldn’t moan more; nor Orpheus, afraid,
sing a song the likes that I have loosed,
nor sugarify the citrus that I juiced
for the attention. I wasn’t even paid!
As Yahweh spake the one primordial verb,
big-banged the blessed world out of the wet
waters of the dark and formless firmament,
I, too, create: a tweet, a post, a blurb—
poor hostage to attention’s oubliette:
the polls suggest it will not make a dent.