Prostitutes wander the picnic ground
handing out pamphlets of classic literature
bimbos akimbo, hands on hips, babes
whispering to kids, ‘Put your mouth on my ellip…
sis’ this is not their first time turning
this trick, getting snot-nosed little shits to pick up
books and hit hard the dope scholars ship

state-funded pornography just won’t cut it here
no, not in a park at midday, where
every bush burns as if god were clapping hard
thunder, scorching cunts with sharp words, blades
curling tongues and toes as he goes on and on for
over an hour about how much he
knows, that his Midas touch turns bullshit into gold

but he can’t pronounce his own name, this
joke—turns out he’s just some hobo who’s coked-out from
having read too much Xeroxed scripture
so much for doing the lord’s work, those bitches were
missionaries and it looks as though
I’m in no position to judge or to drive home
whatever the point was of this poem.