I unscrew my head and...another head pops out.
Poet's midnight snack...another poet or two.]
In This Issue
Why this huge crush on escaping
the cruise liner only to be shot at, then
actually shot, days at sea, Jesus, the spoom,
sand, never forget the rock climbing,
tough go at making a fire,
you can’t arrest me here, why?
because you’re not here, I’m alone.
And then the long ride back in a seaplane
when it should’ve been an ambulance.
Name one place after I mention bloodless,
standing around, standing around as all wildlife
goes tame: Office Depot, no, Office Max,
no, I’m not understanding what you mean.
If there’s a tank filled with just pebbles
and poop and murky water,
I’ve still got to ask, what exactly happened,
not, where’d they all go?
All this talk about how synthesizers
are the no no we always take back
and now, now that we have them
are you really, for me, still crying?
The flowers children paint, in terms
of their tendency, are an example
of the endless delay of their sudden
concern, and how dumb
are my variations, how prone
the cold is.
If every synthesizer kept on playing
throughout the thrum of those blue skies
we must somehow live though, nothing
would ever begin to outlanguage us
during our fairly incredible
Yesterday, before reporting live
on channel four about a three car clusterfuck
in the middle of the morning rush, I was in the right mind
to refreshen my helicopter with the pastured scent
Then, as the sun hit the wreck, all the laws
of the dark universe thwacked each other
at once. I hovered. You bet I hovered.
What am I doing here? I can’t hear anything
but the Korean War in this thing.
Every day I radio in these roads.
And I never go home with anyone.