The water is stained. Rust. Something else. Blood?
We move through it, up to our knees. Mosquitoes everywhere.
There is applause on the mountain top… or thunder.
Most of the recruits have fled. Afraid of bombs and God
and their publishers… We hiked through a pile of bones…
surviving on fairy tales and tequila.
The spine of our books are crooked,
contaminated, beaten down by brazen bandits
and bad news bears… thumbed through by careless
interlopers that turn operas into heart surgery,
blankets into badlands…
I’m a collection of free radicals,
buried in a mineshaft of J Crew coupons
while an owl swoops silently over the battlefield
and hope dries up and becomes powdered sugar
in a bowl of cartoon commercials.
Come dissect me. Come protect me.
Come put me in a formaldehyde jar.
Plant me in the garden. Punish me.
Pulverize my bones.
Vaporize my poems.
Talk to me in Icelandic.
When we’re alone your fingers are cold.
There’s a grassy knoll I want to walk with you.
There’s an island in Mexico I want to die with you.
When we’re alone I can barely hear you.
We sing like Elliot Smith
with a belly full of shit,
yell like Modest Mouse
about dishonest crap.
Put gas in the car.
Feed the cat.
Tell your mom
you’re not coming home.
Tell your dad
you’re going to make him proud.
Throw kerosene on the cabin
and have a smoke.
Hike to the river
and throw in a joke.
There are cattle horns on the Chevy,
a bevy of women stripping in the back,
there’s a poet crying about his shadow,
and a white rapper looking to battle.
Is it a fantasy or 1997?
We throw rice
at the newlyweds,
lice at unruly heads,
dice at the screwy kids.
Do it twice for the movie reel.
I’m a cannibal comedian on cannabis.
Self-contained foxtrot dancer,
magniloquent and magnanimous,
I’m Los Angeles, I’m Palmdale.
I’m raw as a coconut, cocky and kinda nuts.
I’m here in the flesh but I’m not all there.
I’m kind of a slut.
Sniffing wasabi, eating uncooked chicken,
tattooing Xs on my heart like a man that just
read a good book. Wear cutoff sweats,
and my girl says it’s not a good look.
String poetry along like a married lawyer,
dripping sarcasm like a wet cat in the froyer,
squeal like a teenage girl eating fro-yo, oh no,
the malconents are renting next door, overtaking
Luxor and making pie with gusto.
Figuring out algorithms for rhythm…
Building prisons for wisdom…
Scurrying wildly like a lab rat in a bathtub.
Some say we’re doomed… just hush up and put on your joggers.
Clip my fingernails.
Your shirttails stained with shit trails.
Be kind to me…
let me linger like a curse word in church.
Insert metaphor and malaise here.
This one’s for you, dear.