Is this what passes for a career in your modern digs,

thrilling cadres of proto-anthropological middle schoolers

via an illustrated guide to one’s own innards? I won’t have it.


(Baby, this emptiness has already been judged)


I have heard of your “Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer”; why

can’t I aspire to an MFA in poetry as I thaw in this mild

lover’s spring of dripping blossoms? I won’t have it.


(And I don’t want no piece of this mechanical world)


Was it the arrowhead in my shoulder? Exposure to the Alps’

frozen fangs? A broken heart? How I lived interests nobody.

Negate me. Shrivel me to scientific nothing. I won’t have it.


(I am the Iceman, fighting for the right to live)