The Rain Was Laughing Sideways
…and the stranger came to town
and no one knew him
and he went to every house
dropping a single breadcrumb
on each doorstep
and then the stranger left
and never returned
and everyone rejoiced
because they had
bread.
8 Orgasms Later the Love Child of the Octopus
Sings
The path is the progression like birdseed
on its way to being eaten
and the spines of books are just tiny
inkblot men
lit firework cracking
into a shuddering cream corn world
and I share such sentiments
with this newest one
in bed
and she laughs
says I am crazy
like a clown without a face
as I roll her over
run my nails down
her back
while the green electrical box hums
and competing cats
circle in the
street
and my car sits silently in park
in the drive
like a naughty
child
on time
out.
England Stole my Rain, and Now All I Can Be
is Happy
In line behind an old lady
counting pennies
when I have to pee
or stuck in afternoon gridlock
with a broken radio
and no air conditioning
I would love to rage
but all I can do
is laugh
as a flock of seagulls
crap all over my head
and a nail gun and a barefoot
become a reason to go to
the hospital.
Pregnancy scares elicit a chuckle,
meteor showers, a promise to soap and lather.
The apocalypse is tomorrow
and I have rose coloured glasses
glued over my eyes.
England stole my rain
and now all I can be
is happy.
A death in the family tries to help me,
but my tears are tears of joy.
Even parking enforcement
is taken aback
when I grab the ticket off the windshield
smile ear to ear
and tell the fine young man
just out of school
in the starched blue uniform
to
drive safely.
Phonebooks Make the Best Communists
what to do in a pinch:
bake a cake, read the Futurists,
pick my nose and wipe it on the wall
behind the couch
call the mother ship
give them directions to the nearest
White Castle
fill the gas tank with sugar
and old newspapers
exercise my arms and exercise
my legs
the tendons and muscle pulling
like old guitar strings
this is what is meant by a fruitful enterprise
raising yellow paint flecks to be courageous
in spite of the sun
saving many things to disk
crushing up light bulbs into
tiny board game pieces…
phonebooks make the best
Communists,
did you know that?
power line razor wire
cutting through the
blue veined
sky –
where to go in a hurry:
to hell
or the Jersey turnpike,
a nature preserve full of child stars
and spreadable
jams.
I Am a Humming Wood Chipper
of Joy
I am full of electricity.
I am a light bulb of power steering
and opinion.
I am the buzzing phone wires over your head
where the blackbirds gather.
Watching you stumble off to work
each morning,
head lowered
shoulders hunched,
trying to make the
bus.
There are no parades for me,
no false snow dropping
confetti.
Dogs raise their legs in the grass line,
others raise their glasses.
This is what is meant by the daily grind.
I am a humming wood chipper
of joy.
Dimples on pasty billboard faces.
Churning deep in the belly
of overfed whales.
A kiss thought long extinct.
Aging prizefighter electric.
The blackbirds in the trees
all preening and attentive
and squawking.
256th
The light turns on, ah…
there’s a world!
there’s a world!
it may not be a good world
but I see closets
and drawers
and a cracked white
laundry bin
on the floor –
overflowing
and voluminous
like the 256th wonder
of the modern
world –
and there is much dust about
as if the cleaning lady
had never been invented,
and what of the garbage man:
that impossible smell
as if hyenas tore a baby apart
like a kinder egg
to have what’s inside
and left the rest out in my hallway –
the nodules
and a dirty diaper –
to be picked over
by the vultures
and hoarders
and obit. writers
of some
renown.
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