My first words were, “sup mafuckas”
witchcraft and chill?
craving tensed nervous lips.
shaking and left near the tissues on the end-table.
if i creaked when i moved would you
call me your favorite bedframe
if i shock your tongue with these stupid
electric fingers just unplug me from the wall
could we live through this one dented suitcase
hurrying along on chipped wheels and filtered
airport water
stinging throats of bestselling novelists
caged between midnight and three a.m.
but
i drained a hell of a lot of spirits and
filtered it through a body composed of
three ghosts
but
i stared a lot out through filtered fog
just to take the shit-end of passenger coughs
nothing but a plastic bag i
put over the statue’s head
and screamed from my milk-crate stage
that it was to save him from the
smell of pigeon shit
but
who really wants to gander at this
fucker’s pudgy face,
still glorifying a won battle
in a lost war like
coming in last
gave out all the more courage
if i could piss on bombs to dismantle them forever
i’d still first piss in the face of its builder
don’t feel doomed,
it’s only demons throwing temper tantrums like
cows throw tasty pies into the pasture grass.
spending time in your shadow suits me just fine.
as long as i can see my chicken-scratch on
cigarette packs, writing you letters as you
go about your day.
but i crash-land on neglected garden.
i punch a big hole in the soil and i just hope that
forgiveness can find its shovel
if i wrote you another rickety poem like
roller coaster stilts stuck into
quicksand
would you fall for me again
or
would young love stick its throat in a guillotine
and utter from its lips “thanks that was fun”?
if i brought dynamite to the world’s end
would it be overkill or would people think
i
was all that, life of party,
son of our maker whom
we shall meet rather soon?
imagine walking around naked thinking it was a dream and it totally was not
a voodoo doll but all we do is touch its no-no parts
lead me not into this nation,
but between the legs of an angel
frying her wings in quality oil…
that’s good eatin’,
praise till organs melt in longing
like
diary soup
my apologies for breaking your chains.
if i knew you liked choking too far from
cellar pipes…
i can’t help but stare.
on a globe of sandpaper hearts,
where else is there to look?
in ditches?
across dinnerware?
through hollow bones made into flutes
just for these types of occasions?
in
valleys and hills of crossed legs in satin dresses?
perhaps i could take my pick but i’ve always been so
utterly mediocre at making the right choice,
at least
up until now,
submerged in barroom mercury with my eyes open
prepared for liftoff.
a second floor full of charmers and skeptics,
riddled with discouraging symptoms of
foot-in-mouth
called different for the pressure points
in which we leak;
rest assured i called a hotline for such things.
they said we could continue seeing each other as
long as i don’t
let go of your hand when
sucking dry the raincloud of our choice
an unhandled exception.
pull weeds from my head
for a chance to see even uglier plants bloom
like a folk tale’s effect on schoolchildren
nestled in a wintry collection of broken ladders
were you ever one for superstition?
or can we cum in each other’s mouths and
heave surrender out of
an already broken window?
pettiness stuck to
table manners like
flies in a frog’s nostalgic collection
cause us to worry
cause us to stir
when unwelcoming images of
pumpkin patch obscenities
figure their way into our
wading subconscious
you never worried as much as me,
you liar,
but i thank you for it
with all the wicker baskets
i can fit in my wagon