Capitulate why don’t you? Dos figuratives
met in the garden of my villa at Caesarea.
Speak softly to the applesauce in my lumberjack boots.
She dealt her dark sticky card on the white
table of the sheet: Van Sant traps, she thinks.
Wo doggies! My buttcheeks are twitchin’ like
3 sheep in a rain storm—
Bellbottoms are my mom.
The ocean broke loose from its sockets and
bent us like coathangers. Phonecians.
Fetch me my monk frog, Donate my liver,
the potted meat plant rang me like a
windchime. Guatemalan lunch bucket
Snip the erasers off of 500 #2 pencils
and put them in a milk crate. Now
spill them onto your bed. That is how
this poems will sound. Milk grater.
Self-referential. Dumb as all get out.
Hi Mom, sign that says “send money It’s
a college football item. Say something stupid
for the camera. Fuck nuts. Look, hi,
I’m in a poem. Neat. Well, jeez. I don’t
know what to say. What?

***

Post first published on February 2, 2009

Photo by Sven Buschbeck