Tilt, then, gerbil wheel—
I will put you right again
ev’ry time you fall.
Outside, car’s passenger seat
finally clean—too late now.
It’s rough like canvas–
unpainted roads on old sails.
Lake won’t fish itself.
Distant thunder shakes
glass–the world appears behind
closed blinds. Hold fast.
Condensate from steam
sticks to our pink bathroom walls–
we missed the morning.
the pulse of Taco Bell bowels
the flatulence fells him.
Someone broke heaven
into cinnamon twists.
Balled up like paper,
the hood of the car burns–rain
wets the tar. We wait.
The filing cab’net’s sleek black sides’ dull gleam
reflects the dim-blurred image of a foot
all sandal-wrapped with unclipped nails that seem
a cowry colored echo of a root
exposed from underneath a fleshy soil.
Softly sung to eyes, the image weighs
as much as steam from cheeks too long embroiled
or downy barbs by children’s fingers splayed,
a weight displaced by sounds of rustled paper,
construction tones beyond the office glass.
The iris shifts, blinks; attention tapers;
the knee curls slow and bids reflections pass.
The world external, rendered partially mute,
regains its misplaced language in the foot.
He blows his nose and out shoot little human people. As they catapult from his nostrils, he feels their tiny elbows and brittle knees bounce and tumble along his soft nasal corridors; his eyes water as they snag hairs and wake follicles. Little beings. They are lighter than bird bone and bundled in flea-barb armor. Their cries are nearly impossible to hear, like the dialogue of a dream post-waking. But somehow we hear them: “The tapewyrm of travesty is reborn in the world; the horn has been blown–to arms!”
Christmas lights, hang on!
Spring is twenty days away–
hang on to your homes!
After another school shootin’
Trump, with his mouth, started tootin’:
“I’d run right in,”
he said with a grin,
though he quaked at the shadow of Putin.