I can see where your feet kicked the ceiling,
remember thinking about the wallpaper
peeling there, clinging
to the plaster-backed walls we
talked about hating as we lay there dreaming.
Ephemera. Phenomena. Calisthenics for the
brain I’m putting out to
pasture in the morning, where
I can leave it alone with the bolt-shot I
put out from the heart at
some old plot in the dark
whence it never returns to the
rear-wheel drive I’m about to start.
Perhaps crude for my part,
these rhymes hardly start
to convey greater heart
than a pig,
oiled and ready to begin
his grease-flaming passionate end
resulting inevitably in splatters
on the fry cook's kitchen island.
Now can I see
glorious nutrient
golden upon an egg-washed skillet.
That’s me, awash on the
breakfast plate palate of an
orange juice quaffing magnate
of only the greatest degree a man
traveling from place to place asleep
in the upper rafters of a two ton
twelve-spinning guzzler of petrifieds, liquidated
and itemized for pricing by gallons on
neon road signs
can ever hope to possibly be.
Let these lyrics beseech
you might let my beached
and swollen stomach swell empty with the vacancy
of a two-hole bar kept under weary
one-eyed watch as one fellow waits
for inclusion in a miraculous plot
where the hero is
taught wisdom through the speakerphone slot
on the apartment’s front stoop
waiting to be screened with rest of the lot
which you left to the doorman whose
fingers are caught in the crisp morning air
betwixt his keys and the leather
struggling to flex on his joints turned cold rubber
and he curses the name of no. 213 on the sheet
pasted next to the caller.
My voice breathes in his curses
and tries a heart to bother.
The hero shuffles onward.
Gentlemen, honor our
guest of the hour, whom
to which only the greatest lauder
has a voice worthy of piercing haze like
the veil of a bridesmaid’s licorice-red collar
whose own wedding was that which
none could propose to bother.
But dapper go dander, sally forth
to the anxious pit-pattering slip
of ice-shovels hooved by
the locally-aged blacksmith.
Quite work for a smithy, as
collects at least one from the party;
astute and genteel only
allowed to saunter this byway
or traipse with the trotting
of true craft’s great admiring
as growing malfeasance bereaves
of the widow her pleasures
to whose husband attribute
all the great treasures
of a town bedraggled by lacking investment
and consumed with the traipser gentlemen’s
vixens and vices, whose own limits have prices
only too easily paid to get horsies to play
where at first it seemed a land only dogs were let bay.
And so to hell let it roam
as I place on the loam
a headstone dedicated to the
egg-washed, pig spot, pillow-punishing, gently wondering, traipsing, baiting, and unappreciating
world not worth saving,
for no grace summoned could ever sufficient enough serve
to keep even one bird unkenneled unhurt.
Points: 836
Reviews: 3
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