Matt Zambito
To Green
—to twig equal-signs of meaning photosynthesized between
the unofficial first sprout sprung in spring; and a house
spruced up with a cereus cactus; and frogs about to lose
their version of sinless virginity on a lily pad; and fronds
Palm Sunday congregations hold and hosanna; and a spear
of asparagus envious of a Christmas tree; and reveries
after just enough viridescent absinthe, cannabis, and spicy
guacamole; and barium ending jaded when engulfed by
flame; and a firefly’s bioluminescent bottom floating up
from the grass as it says Hello, as it says Don’t harm me,
as it says I’m horny; and pastures the Shepherd maketh
the psalmist lie down in; and a single resplendent quetzal
swimming through air with wing-flaps; and the feeling
of pining for a lush field of forty-four-leaf-clover luck.
~
That Cheapskate Justin Bieber
Please tell that cheapskate Justin Bieber
he still owes me gas money for the time
I drove him home from the airport.
I can write that on the Internet.
That basically makes it mainly true
as the untrue conviction that apex
artificial intelligence is intelligent
to invent. Please tell Justin Bieber
I like the way his music seems
like something that isn’t actually
blah, meh, ugh, feh. I seem like that
when I listen to his manicured music.
I can write that on the Internet
even if it’s conclusively true I’m more
like that whenever I lie on the Internet
about Justin Bieber owing me dough.
He does owe me the time I’ve wasted
enjoying his bubblegum-pop hits
to just barely tolerate my daily drives
through all manner of traffic, bopping
my noggin down to the upbeats,
lip-synching off-key, ignoring
the potential dread of tomorrow.
Please believe me when I write that
I love more than what I’ve lost
to time’s ever-increasing speed.
Whatever that means, it now means
something on whatever becomes of
the Internet to future music historians
and professors of ancient poetry
(at least until high tech ends autonomies
on the low note of singularity)
feeling owed an instant answer to
their search for “What’s the best poem
about Justin Bieber?” (if anything past
matters, then nothing matters more,
nothing less) and arriving at this.
Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. His poetry and prose are forthcoming in swamp pink, The Adroit Journal, The MacGuffin, Melange: A Journal of Prose Poetry and the Arts, Great Lakes Review, and elsewhere. Originally from Niagara Falls, he has lived in Ohio, Idaho, Washington, and New York, where he now resides with his rescue dog, Sadie.
