I want to wear hairnets
in my shoes. A girl will please, please shake
herself out onto my turtleneck
like granulated sugar.
May a small inkpen full of red-ink
be the umbrella that threatens the citizenship
papers of the rain or how
this all sillily sounds?
I hope the new shoes come, sugared.
I hope atavistic orange juice falls grassward
out of the victorious talon of my smile.
Let my eyes be pinkened swirly straws
every lady & tramp suckles Diet Coke from the skull,
mindful of the way a little too sweet
holds out its hand, palm up like a passenger bus.
I've got spilled milk-stains on my heart's workbench
you kindled with old shit to a grill.
A spoon made of sugar and cold shivers
died lightly in the cornea-tear, caulking
soda & red mud in the shape of a halved avocado
inside the tin-man's chest cavity.
Ice-cream got the scoop, fell out,
& sold the story to Entertainment Tonight,
and then I saw myself on TV, unable to cry
having to chew the dirt I needed to mud
the avocational heart I wanted moist & red.