I have decided that
My arms are food.
They are worthless elsewise.
So for now,
My arms are corn-cobs.
Boiled out of themselves
By the subtle thievery of rolling water.
A slop of string and sun-tossed yellow meat.
Lemme at that child who wont eat the cream,
lend me the fish-mouthed daughter of an islander.
Let a dumb monkey like me borrow the butter of the coupled branch.
Forgive each bud for it’s salty rims.
The blood mouthed meditation of blue light,
the bent ankles, pinned up like chicken thigh tiaras,
pink gemstones in the fat of the crown.
Kneebones bleached out like knotted bedsheets.
These white balls, the fresh lightning.
The clapping sky applauding our every pitchless anthem,
someone else’s flag kicked into a quilt,
A doily of negative space, the gracious martyr in a time of headless queens.
Its not that serious, girls.
It’s a fist of aluminum foil
Bubble-gummed into wet electrics
This dipped lip battery
It’s spit in a coke bottle
The beggar’s cable in the elephants trunk.
A bead of sweat riding the condemned man into the bad, bad shake.
Sometimes I doodle to remember what eyes look like.
Im very good with the brows, uncanny with the potato sacks and the chins
I should have been an artist
I should have been the ceiling of a monastery,
Some dying plaster, risen.
A plate of clay, abused.
A thousand bowls suspended on high
Filled to my lips with someone else’s poetry.
I should have drowned in blood
A shameless fish
In a mess of dead bishops.
All creamy with the reddest red’s we could get our hands on.
Strawberry dogs, sweaty with sugar.
I should have spent more time regretting the folks I never really loved.
It would have made for better drama.
It would have given me a reason to lament my twenties.
I could tell someone else “I want children.”
And I would, out of spite.
My grandfather died in Vegas,
Never having met me
It’s the least I could do for him.
To leave a stinking mystery behind
To bequeath some untouchable bastard
To my descendents
I will leave them four dollars
And a man they can chase till they drink the mud.
I am Sidhartha’s boat
And the punchline to the dead chuckle,
Bent into a shadow
Cast in hell.
No one give’s a fuck.
And nobody is sad about that,