I want to be the poet-in-residence at Mall of America oh yes
where I’d ululate, scream, chest-thump and rant and chant
and assemble everyone into drumming circles where we shriek
about our angry vaginas hanging by a thread and The Patriarchy
wielding an equally angry sword of Damocles over our heads
and rhyme and order are prosecuted as political crimes.  I’ll stage
an aggrieved liturgy like a fly in the ointment of Elmer Gantry.
My polemics will be your poetics, America’s little gospel of verse.

This will be cool because St. Paul has lakes where I could ice-
fish for inspiration, spear my metaphors and toss subtle ones back.
I’m after the ones who can swallow the whale of protest, wear little
berets and yell into microphones. All the good ones got away, and
the little crappie are polishing the tarnished turds they call  MFAs.
I’d wax apoplectic, rattling my saber-toothed prophetic jaws
with hairlip-like precision and my kiosk will be ideologically pure
as Windex, right here, right now, at the Grand Mal of the Americas.

I want to be a hairpin upturmed-lip-sneering, judgy, edgy performance
poet, authentic as a mannequin enacting brutal store-window choreography
at the Mall of the Americas, dipping a toe, tipping my hat, oh yes oh yes oh yes.