Tuesday, January 6, 2009

poem of the #2


Your body looked like a radio jingle from the 1950s.
The last time I heard the universe speak was in 1949.
You didn't exist. Bolo ties, ring pops, and hard-on fever,
until we all sat in tubs, soaking soap into our pores like
tennis robots. Who else has sat on a couch alongside the
freeway, eating a carrot, roasting their own thumb,
arranging dead bees to spell their honeymuffin's name?
I could cut out the names of everyone but yours.
We still smell like bee shadow soaking the eternal
glow of stores that stay lit all night to spook robbers.
Can you please umpire my next trip to space?
I feel like all I can possibly throw at the sun
is balls. Can you please tell me I'm not worthless.
I have heartache on the thumb, thanks to this
Wii Love game you left in the box with your
suicide note. What's weird is you still email me,
but it sounds like a spam bot, a spam bot that
really likes me, which I'm trying to want. All the
confidence I can muster is a fact about the Civil War.
William Tecumseh Sherman marched through the South,
dick in hand, heart on sleeve, marching to the the ocean
with mucus on heart, heart in sneeze, ventricle Kleenex,
chambers of heavy just beating like syrup on dirt,
soldiers behind him with birchwood 1860s mops
for the tears. Finally, at the ocean, Sherman saw
Sherman after Sherman: clones of himself but made
of tissues, bobbing and floating all the way to the sun.
And, at this point in history? All we can say is "Shame
on a brother!" All we can wipe is pus off a mirror.
And heartache is the sun, and love is still a mythic
pair of Aviators from 1968 that may not exist, so let
the world fall out of the deep, dark dust and through.

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