Rats are on the roof veering phalanges,
Scraping tiles and singing for invisible
Sex organs. Zola crouches to avoid her ceiling,
She arranges bric-a-brac on her coffee table
To conceal piles of dust scattered about.
The Meaning Of Life awaits outside.
A car accident restricts traffic to a lull.
Drivers examine their surroundings
For a possible exit to the gridlock.
Inside the mangled carcass
Of the broken car
A woman bleeds geography
Street signs to Science Fiction
Believing brains. A rat on a roof
Sings a Swan Song,
Zola folds laundry,
Creasing fabric to hide stains
And Jelly Rolls.
A woman dies waiting for the Meaning Of Life.
Zola folds laundry.
Cars escape gridlock.
Rats stare from rooftops
Waiting to become fodder
For science experiments.
An inclination to digest ice cream,
Synchronized with withdrawal. I watched paper napkins
Ricochet off passing tires, loop de loop
Above a sidewalk ramp, collide with a mobile traffic sign,
Remain stationed there,
Flapping like an imperialist’s flag
Inserted into the ground
Of an occupied country. I walked inside the gas station
A free man, hungry for ice cream. By the counter
A woman confronted her neighbor with accusations
Of stolen matches. “This bitch right here,” she said,
“Called me a slave and stole my matches.” I walked out
Without ice cream. I’ve abandoned less,
But America reminds us of the more
From coupon clippings
To a woman arrested at a gas station
For agitating the peace,
We’ve settled. Closer to nightfall
A faction of teenage boys wandered the roundabout
Stationed outside my window. They did this several times
Throwing Party Snaps at the street signs
As they shuffled past,
A disorganized platoon of future American innovators.
I had no ice cream at this point,
But I knew I wanted a cold lump
Placed on my tongue and I wanted drool
That cooled my lips while it descended,
America why did I desire more?
Tenants of my apartment complex
Often catch me shirtless by my bedroom window typing.
I hear them whisper to ancient lovers at night: did you see him again?
I want to whisper back: go away. I’m working.
They’re not aware…
I have a child’s blood on my bedsheet.
We fucked the velvet from existence,
& coddled a fetus,
Displaced in-utero. A blanket of morning comforts
The ill-advised philanderers. Time progresses not in 24, but from a lack
Of alcohol & pills. I hold a blanket dipped in woodgrain
Against the bedroom window. I say: look here’s a story
Name the tree. Once we name the dead.
Once we name the dead. Once we name the dead
The dead can remember…By ignoring lucid suffering,
We become complacent. 3 pills per sunrise. 2 pills per nightfall.
I swallow them up with a sip of madness for lubrication. Tender
Is the throat waiting to be cut?
The fan’s aura is rusty, flakes from a decaying screw sprinkled its frame as I turned it on. The fan wails during thunderstorms, thunder muffled through spinning blades, no fear of lightning vibrations for the deaf, hell, it’s a God song they ought to sing. But what tempts the aura of a fan delights the death of a revenge screw. Revenge screws are easy to identify. They spin counterclockwise and sort of squeal while being twisted. They’re always in need of a Philips Head when what’s present is a flathead, but they delight in vice versa too. They are also in dire need of suicide. A sweet kill lurches, poses like thunder and proposes death as ultimate rejoice. Revenge screws turn, squeal and pulsate inside knotted wood. Thunder hums. Silence ensues.
Portrait of a chimpanzee accomplished using acrylic paint,
But rumor specifies a bust of Churchill in the White House.
A bedframe spread like a skeletal system to which I draped
Human colors across, aligning sunshine with shadows
Nailed to the walls. I heard a bovine escaped a slaughterhouse
And sprinted throughout Manhattan. Citizens were aghast, stunned
That a slaughterhouse was located close enough for a bovine to
Escape from, liberated on a Monday morning he was captured
By Tuesday afternoon. They slaughtered him like art in Times Square,
Butchering a steer while reciting poetry for the adoring public.
Portrait of an ethical quandary framed and hung above a skeletal bedframe,
Human colors adjusted spectacles to observe the reasoning behind the spread.
A postage stamp used like a Band-Aid to suture the edges of a paper wound. And on the coffee table a glass brimming with tap water trembles from a philanthropist’s footsteps, footsteps galvanized by a frantic pace, directing him to grab items off the shelves and fidget with price tags fastened, loosely. Window shoppers are onlooking, hot breaths trailing from lungs taking pause to appreciate the philanthropist flailing sundries, unknown to him, unowned by him. Shop owner bites her lip. She moans and twiddles a loose string descending off her plain white t-shirt with her fingers, looping the dead stitch around her index and middle fingers. Philanthropist stoops to lift a lone penny off the ground. A centimeter of his underwear peeks out from his khaki waistline. Window shoppers are onlooking and curl their faces with disgust at such a vulgar display. Philanthropist senses a dozen eyes observing his exposure, he turns red and lifts his waistline to his nipples. Shop owner sighs with relief as he exits the store. Nothing was accomplished that day, nothing of value.
First. A (noun). Then a function to progress function. This speculation assumes deity identity, a separation clear like glass from spectator, who is, or was…that eye sore, or that dead eyed snore, a possession of function, collector of petals, numbers and sex symbols. Witness to thousand-yard stares that ensnare pockmarks in the walls, whence, arachnids lurch and wiggle out stressors (flies that fought) & everyday stories.
Second (noun assumed). She pinches at the corners of her sundress, draped like a curtain over the sides of the park bench. A breeze lifts the corners of her sundress while she’s distracted by moonlight, moonlight that highlights a ripple fluttering in the shallow pond. An assemblage of Gerridae insects scuttle, hop and amuse the streetlamps, onlooking, patient like a voyeur. She pinches at the corners of her sundress and buries the corners beneath her fleshy thighs. A breeze touches her ankles, she smiles but not out of amusement. The smile is a concoction of love, disguised as a fervor.