112/365: Ed Norton Fantasy Poem #10

This is my Ed Norton-ized version of Amanda Palmer's poem, A Poem for Dzhokhar, which has garnered much criticism from places like Gawker, which called it "...the worst poem ever composed in the English language".

Ed Norton, you don't know how it felt to be me watching your long shorts brush your knees from my seat in a dark theatre where I ate chicken fingers and hoped you weren't cold.

you don't know how intimately the female gaze falls to your hemline.

you don't know how to stop talking with that flat affect of yours, and you're not going to.

you don't know how little you've been paying attention until you discover that, holy crap, you're 43 already.

you don't know how many times you can say you're coming until the neighbours in the next hotel room bang on the wall and tell you to just cum already, goddamnit.

you don't know how orgasmic the act of eating my savoury bacon and caramelized onion pancakes is.

you don't know how many people got punched in the face and liked it because of you.

you don't know how convinced your parents were that life wouldn't go by this fast.

you don't know how precious your thumbs are until you accidentally shoot one with a nail gun.

you don't know how to get away from the stupid buzz of celebrity.

you don't know how it's possible to feel such joy over breakfast waffles and such disappointment over making a film your heart wasn't into.

you don't know how things could get this bad on the planet.

you don't know how to make something, but you insist on trying to invent it anyway.

you don't know how to make sense of the fact that you once dated Courtney Love.

you don't know how to believe anything when Total Blueberry Pomegranate cereal doesn't even contain blueberries and pomegranates.

you don't know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that it's okay if she continues to write poetry about you that's completely unmoored from anything actual.

you don't know how to explain why you look so hot in khaki shorts, but you'll accept the compliment.

you don't want two percent but the store's all out of one percent.

you don't know how claustrophobic your house is until you're stuck in one of those tight mountaineering sleeping bags that you bought for your trip and took for a test run on your living room floor.

you don't know why you let that guy go and rope you into doing The Italian Job, but contracts can be a bitch.

you don't know where your friends do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.

you don't know how to dance, but you know how to be the United Nations Goodwill Ambassador for Biodiversity.

you don't know how your life managed to be so awesome.

you don't know how to pay back your debt to the planet for existing, but you're doing your best.

you don't know how to separate milk, because, if you did, you wouldn't be buying this goddamned two percent.

you don't know how come people run their lives without making every effort to give something back and pay it forward.

you don't know how to measure the value of knee socks, because you're not some pervy lady sitting in a dark theatre watching Moonrise Kingdom.

you don't know how you walked into this exact situation, but it sure is amusing.

you don't know how to adjust the dial, but that's okay, because it's all touch screens now.

you don't know how to mourn for things like lost pets or broken toys in the face of global warming.

you don't know how to drive a tractor like a boss, but there's only so much call for that kind of thing.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

you don't know the way to San Jose.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com