Is there any meaning in Kyiv Unedited?
From competent and independent to incompetent and dependent.
Evil overpowers free will.
Talent replaced by sycophancy.
And Jack Step sits here, wondering, who’s using the Kyiv Post-It as a channel toward the realization of what custom-fit private purposes?
Is a large public relations retainer at work here?
What’s the point of fighting – at all – for so long; for so, so long…
And what of Saint Stephan? Why should Kyiv Unedited defend his interests? After all, he’s dead – a fitting ending after proving himself a loser and drunk. Fired four times from the Kyiv Post-It – the first time by Welsh Losser, the second, by Andrzej Plumka, the third, by Convulsion Man, and the last, by Seth Sundance himself in close panicked scheming with desperate Ferret consultations and the arrogant agency of Zippy Zamazda, whom Sundance made chief editor en route to Brent Boner?
I’m sick of it all – sick to death. Hey, who you?!
For my name is Steve Kowalski.
And Jack Step thinks: Has he always been here, and I simply didn’t notice, or did he just appear?
The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure, says Step wryly. What are you doing here; what do you want?
For I am a poet, a bad one, for a bad poet am I.
Great. And I guess you’re going to jump around from section to section on this website, uncontrollably, with no rhyme or reason, inexplicably rattling my good friend Manny Face in The Checkout section, unnerving his cool, dapper, cheap-cologne, elegant, dark-suit, suave, a little bit gangster-greasy, and somewhat sinister B-actor exterior, spewing your bad poetry to no other purpose than for the sake of its being spewed, maybe commenting on the action like a broken Greek chorus once in a while? Or what?
Among things other,
Mayhaps more.
For I am a poet
Saying badly
What you can’t say well.
Uh-huh. Aaaaahh, hey, listen, Kowalski did you say your name was?
Indeed – for a poet bad I am.
Maybe we can use you after all. You think you can go up against Sweaty Tank Top?
Aye, roundly and severe.
Okay, good. What about Animal Boy Plumka?
Forsooth and ho-ho!
Dispense me of thine grungy jesters
And spare me thine post-urban welts
A-hacking in their dreaming ways
Holed up and deluded in copse-snared hideouts
Staking out their raving and illegal beast’s fee simple
On the Island of Trukhaniv
Corrupted in the fret-beaded Dnipro crests
Which property only to condemn
And run the sewage-girded rascal out,
Plowing a bridge through his adopted thickets.
Sirrah!
Out-poet him I shall
Toward the cowslip of a writhing.
Hey, Step thinks, I’m beginning to like this guy…
Filed by Jack Step, June 5, 2013