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)

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