Crack the Pinot and stuff one more week in the pine box.
[dispatches]
-
Boiling Water Backwards
Give it up for the two-legged palindrome
Who says he means what he says what he means
So transparent that nothing is there
And man he's scripted a eulogy for your demise
He attends funerals like a court of appeals
A hoarder of truth that never escapes
It comes out the same way it went in
He speaks with an orifice we've never seen
And you can taste his sulfur and methane
In his haggard dusk as they flare
Like fireflies hitting the Tito's
And then he'll share his plate
With you as a warning and a threat
He offers up his body and blood
While dessert is a Walgreens prescription
With an apéritif of therapy -
Yet Another Way to Move Out
You hung a tiger from your jeep's rear view
mirror and a spring wreath from the door
and left his workboots on the stoop
for months. You suspended silence
on the steps as we passed and your quiet
of arrival succumbed to your quiet
of regret. You hung out on the porch
down on Edisto and gazed out on waves
as you dangled at the first step into life
When your father loaded your wreath left
on the stairway rail, you departed
and a lone boot choked out your note -
Blowing a Tire To Be Rescued By The Oddfellows
How did it come to this at that gutted Shell
by the side of the road, doing improv for the Angus
over the fence and the citizens without mufflers
You cough up quarters of dead air and ask bystanders
for Baja Blasts as the Clown Car of three-link chains
canters up to the curb and spills its staggered harlequins
For something akin to a rescue -
Start Back Somewhere
When a man’s chasing you with a gun, you just run – You don’t turn back and shout ‘Give it up! I was a track star at Mineola Prep!’
- Frank O’Hara, Personism: A Manifesto
-
Fuck You. I’m Millwall
We tend the garden across multiple states
And the rows follow us down the I
As we outrun a harvest we’ll never bearThe rabbits don’t know what’s in store
As they teem the pen and test the mesh
Like Millwall hooligansAnd as husbands we both pet and riot
But we only vandalize the map
And only soothe diners as they cuddle usThey tell us that there’s a great place
Two exits up, but to get there
You’ll have to throw on your chains -
voici.
All right. Let’s figure out this thang.
-
As if Stalked by the Gideons
Nobody will mistake you for the pizza man
now, although they still hunger as you blaze by
in your ill-advised Audi engineering miracle
Your burnt rubber is an illegible signature
on the death warrant of a stricken docent
who demands the head of Alfredo Garcia
Maybe if you hunker in this well-appointed box
that overlooks your lifestyle in the parking
lot, your room tidied to your satisfaction by Dot
Maybe if you try all the drawers, you will find
one without a testament - No informant,
no safe, no one-page notepad, no black balled socks
No green-grained epistle
Less a stolen Book of Job
jtskipjack 