Spokesman for the bald-beard
and perennial amnesty blunderbuss,
your poem is consistent,
a completist for first quarter onslaughts,
your face a calico that cannot breed.
This poems screams “TAKE HIS ASS”
four seconds into its second stanza — outrageous as bubblegum
popping at a funeral.
Your yodels reverberate yonder
under championship banners,
tangoing the champagne-financed tassels —
Tarzan of the bald!
How can the readers of your poem,
the questioners of your fadeaway
not root against you accidentally?
Even your children do.
The fourth year of this poem’s contract politically looms
as Bulls fans debate the centrist they’ve received.
What is hate to the man who cannot feel it?
Checking in under the scorer’s table,
removing rip-away pants amongst thousands,
mindless stripping: you’ve done this countless times before.
Popcorn kernels stick to the teeth of the arena’s denizens —
there is a distinct lack of complaint.
Do your work. Do it consistently,
Carlos Boozer the Poem.
Launch your argument into an impossible arc,
mingling with stratospheric nitrogen,
elbowing amongst franchise history, the ball a condor
descending via it’s aerodynamic head.
Carlos Boozer the Poem considers the hair paint infomercial.
Carlos Boozer the Poem rejects beauty in favor of work.
Carlos Boozer the Poem sits during critical stretches,
occasionally screaming praise.