Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Image borrowed from Bing
Bass lines like fat men squeezing
into third grade desks.
Coltrane's squealing right before I was born.
a pill that makes
the music in my head stop.
Immediately, then I won't know
what I'm missing.
I want dissimilar words, hyphenated
by minty-fresh breath. What good
if no one will listen?
A way-back machine, so I can fix.
William Shatner, circa 1967,
guest host for my 8th birthday party.
I'm wishing for mandibles, clipping
the staccato lilt.
Mandibles for tailoring a new dress.
My woman needs one.
Then X-ray vision
so I can ignore
what I wish for.
I want irrefutable skin
like Luke Cage. Hero for Hire.
In the semi-embarrassment of silence,
I want to understand
why Goya used spoons to paint
instead of leaves.
If nothing else--
a map with the exact location
of the crossroads, so I can believe
what I never should have known.
from THE DEVIL'S GARDEN