Irony of Ironies

The boy built a ladder from expired coupons
and climbed it straight into a “No Trespassing” sign
nailed to the moon. Everyone applauded.
The clapping was recorded in advance.

A priest shaved his beard with a communion wafer,
said the gift unearned over a can of worms,
and wept – because they weren’t organic.
The worms, not the tears. Obviously.

Meanwhile, the rebels formed a line-
to wait for the revolution to be rescheduled.
A crow with a doctoral robe
read bedtime stories to the oil slick.

Someone found the lost ark
inside a vending machine marked Out of Order.
It took five nickels and a slap
to vend a glowing plastic sword labeled “Forgiveness.”
It broke in half when swung.
Twice.

We buried the last honest man in a suit
stitched from expired warranties.
The eulogy was delivered
by a hologram of himself
giving a TED Talk on irony.
Standing ovation. Again.

I kissed a mirror and sued myself
for misrepresentation.
The trial lasted seven years.
Verdict: hung jury.
But the noose was decorative.
Seasonal.

By then, sarcasm had gentrified the town.
They put a boutique where the gallows used to be.
Sold coffee brewed with hindsight
and regret-flavored biscotti.

The poet wrote this with a pen
filled with someone else’s blood.
(But it was consensual. Mostly.)
And the critics all agreed:
it almost meant something.

Then went back to choking
on their own applause.