Thursday, February 14, 2013

Some of the Most Directions from Here

Morning under a stack of toasted hamburger buns
I found seeded free green lumber and knew
It was time to finally get the bed zolofted
And clear a space for going under.

East was the bed and South was too red.
North like the snow of Teachers driven hard before us
All the hope of history to date came express-mailed into sight--
Toothpicks in a blind line-up, faking their death as a possible escape.

In southern Brazil, it began raining social spiders.
Nelson Mandela loves Toddlers & Tiaras.
The tainted beef scandal grows
& they recall the British lasagnas.

Zero-sum cannibals offer an unlimited public transport pass
To a grateful multinational protection group
For the obligation-free infrastructure project
They'd guaranteed Chechen infoterrorists.

Down the hill and almost to last year
There were bad haircuts to get
In the hopes we could make
The old Polaroids more nearly near.

Under the national nursing home scenario, 
I dig a pit with two sanded sticks
And fill it with gingerbread men recycled 
From upcycled Old Spice and silent limbs.

My head is killing me--
No molecular shortcut to postponing death
Compels me to be relentlessly sunny.
I keep the pit open & atop like a prized hat.

And into the great pink outdoors,
Hooded with white whips I flagellate & chant, out of habits:
The world is my leper
I shall not want...

The moon is a horse eating water-
Chestnuts out of a pawned brainpan
But mostly it's a dog
In the sense of the playground
You've yet remembered till now only mostly.
Of course, this shouldn't make you think of celery,
But compelled to be relentlessly sunny,
It's so crisp that it does refresh nostalgia
Like a toothache televised in relentless morning syndication.

With the sun deeply involved in viral end-user license agreements,
Out of rayguns it was once again high-time
We started turning sexuality on and off
Like a stolen wallet in the 99th percentile
Of broken doors and roped, justified silence.

Inside, fitting decay like velvet into halved cantaloupes,
Johnny Bible was taste-testing the trail of blood
Into the final interview of the burgundy family room.
He didn't know it was too late, but I wouldn't have
Either or maybe I would have; it's hard to say,
As everyone sometime or another says.

Out in the long grass
Dorothy is discovering cream,
Mostly under the gums.
No one remembers,
Sitting or not sitting,
The Great Comedies anymore,
But Dorothy is using nasal spray
In certain great hopes
To prove whoever smelt it, dealt it.

Skyward, like a chicken deprived religiously of reason,
We cry the sky is falling like beheaded employment into its own lap.
Little did we know it was the fairest of seasons
Or that the job fair had come to town, giving away free pap.

Falling down is fun but moreso to watch.
I bought everyone a new swatch.
We could all keep Time’s arrow

Straight, even when the times were narrow
Like now, when everyone’s living off vegetables grown in old wheelbarrows.
Before the fall comes and between the hours

Of sitting or not-sitting, after April showers,
On futons behind curtains folding out to shadow more sooner, more now-er,
We sit in flip-flops rocking back & forth

Still warm but facing North
And drinking fresh whiskey sours
Debating some of the directions maybe taking from here.

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