Let’s get rid of all the carnivores, why
don’t we? It would go a long way toward
world peace. I mean, do we really need
all those birds of prey? Wouldn’t the common
house sparrow, which is able to perform
complex tasks like opening automatic doors
to enter a supermarket, be a more appropriate
national bird than the bald eagle? I mean,
think about it: if we lost all the lions
and tigers and bears, the cats and the dogs,
and the humans who can’t make the switch
to vegetarianism, wouldn’t life be kinder and
kind of sweeter? OK, maybe you’re thinking
a world without dogs is no place you’d ever
want to live. And though the sparrow’s diet
consists mainly of seeds, it does eat the occasional
animal: beetles, caterpillars, flies and aphids,
among others. OK, I withdraw my nomination
of the sparrow for the national bird, but hear
me out: we’d still have elephants. In fact
we’d have way more elephants than we have now,
not to mention gorillas, rhinos, horses and cows.
And all those humans who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Paul Hostovsky’s poems appear and disappear simultaneously–voila–and have recently been sighted in places where they pay you for your trouble with your own trouble doubled, and other people’s troubles thrown in, which never seem to him as great as his troubles, though he tries not to compare. He has no life and spends it with his poems, trying to perfect their perfect disappearances, which is the working title of his new collection, which is looking for a publisher and for itself.

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