mailboxes

dangling: the underwater doughnut choir of Berlin

a peripheral wavelength is high-sticking you.
the awaiting intentions of brickbats are playing Uno
with d’Artagnan and Capote, and the most brilliant bird
(a bat in an aggressive sweater) in the aviary is
coagulating meekly with the Antarctic interlopers.
moth-besieged folk heroes will hie as gazelles of
expanding Earth from haven of dale to dystopic sail.
the bric-a-brac squeegee for their supper, vibrating and
conniving against the incremental autumnal chill,
Punch Buggy Blue as the verses of the megaphone
bemuse the cockatoos and bum rush the lexicon.

heaps: the deed to the dauntless mantis

the Great Ball of Fire capitulates. You are standing
at the altar, sweaty palms clasped around wilted lilies,
as Van Sant secures the Final Take and requests you
return your cummerbund and bow-tie to the mannequin
in the display before the lights explode on Broadway.
the math geeks are so wrinkled and creased at your
high school reunion (wry fool communion) that you
can’t stop smacking the top of the Zenith to restore
your memory’s crisp resolution.  electrified Slinkys
arc down McKinley. shepherd, halt thy tempest,
and back it up to Nesmith; you never left Saginaw.

justice: the inner fandango of unmultiplied derivatives

the ladybugs dance away the doldrums, stepping on
the broken bodies of the failed Tarzans of Outer Pacifica,
tarantulas on the vertebrae stomping and pacing hyenas.
they run like Prefontaine from the pith of the djinn
(if one ever had), compass and gavel plunged into
unkempt late afternoon, knuckledusted by unstable mariners.
the chimpanzee’s prodigality retains the receipt in Ho-Ho-Kus,
waffle-pillowed lines of boundary unsatisfactorily
delineate the Has-Beens and Nothing-Doings in
anfractuous bacon-boiled gladness. rhythm-sniff and
track the beat if I’m ever seen moon-staring, finger-crossing.

umpteenth: the infinitely exploding wedding anniversary cake

“how did you know how did you know how did you know?”
rotten timing shanties to the bleeps, gronks, and reels of
Indiana’s chair-hurling Tiamat. the distance is blindfolded,
Chuck Woolery plucking his poetic follicles at you, two
and two and the enemy (is squatting in Penelope’s suburbia!)
is an empty canvas, artist-in-waiting, a beautiful Filipino girl
a kosmokrator for the collection of clean linens with which
to swaddle the rancor.  the grackle is tripping over the hassock
and dispensing cannolis to the lowlifes, sipping in silence the
liquified lightning the burning draft cards the outdoor music
festival the Energizer Bunny as the last needle-stitch.

and so goes the goop of your fantasies, uneven and frightful,
quietly chew your brownie and unleash putrefaction.
a proffer of advisement to you for a record expunged:
keep digging, Mr. Banks, for that surge of deep satisfaction.