Elk Fishing

image from pinterest.com

Elk Fishing

“There is no abstract art. You must always 

start with something.”--Pablo Picasso.

Woke up curious four times

this morning, 

before I escaped my dreams,

or I think I did, as I gleefully

partook the rites of urination.

I brewed up some Earl Gray.

spiked with toenail jam,

stirred with an owl feather;

sipping it beneath my deck,

squatting on pancakes, listening

to the argument between rain

and my fiberglass roofing, sounding

like thousands of angels using the

deck cover as a toilet, filling the wetness

with the smell of Mandarin oranges,

allowing my mind’s crust to

wander & wonder--

Does yellow snow taste like 

    it looks? Does a metal fan blade

         ever get indigestion? Are the creaking 

    hinges on my screen door proof

of a secret hinge code? What

                             does liberty smell like? Now 

                      that watches can talk, do they

              switch languages as you travel? 

          Does smog have the texture

of elm bark? Can thick fog sing

          credible rap lyrics? When a heart

               breaks alone in the forest,

                         can the ants hear it? Yes.

                                acid rain enables rust, but

                                can it tan skin? 

                                When does

                              anger look pink?

                           Do cold--blooded crea-

                       tures like to drink antifreeze?

                    What specific odor is associated

              with genius intellect? If you stroke a car’s

                     hood, does it become aroused? 

                          Does insanity have a 

                                theme song?

Does jealousy smell like fried

green tomatoes? Is stupidity

always dark brown & sticky?

Is a check legal if it is filled

out in frog’s blood? If you

habitually wear your sunglasses

on your posterior, do they finally

become aspects?

Hope sings anthems, and

red sells cars, but glass hammers

fear nails of all sorts.

                     

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub