love is sour cream.
my strategy:
service.
make her life easy. easier at least so
that when the reckoning comes she'll
admit--
I could do worse.
the moon discovers
fingernail clippings
in corners and dusty cans
brylcream ads
slick black jet white
for the sake of aerodynamics, ladies, sit back, relax, enjoy
my new 8 tracks.
chicken-foot floats in porcine green jello mold
creek water
still life with snapping turtles
in the bed of the truck.
toes tucked and a tire iron.
we'll be up until dawn:
fritz the nite owl & flippo the clown,
Big Chuck and Lil’ John
under the influence of midnight frosted flakes
color TV embrace me.
mistaking her for the 17 year old he married
got his nose broke.
not long after
he dawned the horse collar
imitating Animal imitating Keith Moon
she left a leatherette box
with tiny
kapow! accents.
tiered
with bougainvillea
powders and cream,
clip on things,
plastic brooches and tangled chains.
girlfriends dressed like curtains to
match her fancy-fied casket,
short-legged uncles
in Cuban heels
sink into cookie monster
shag.
Bakelite hi-fi stereo console
coos Conway Twitty.
tubes produce a diffusion of
fresh bread & band-aids
textured rose fabric finish
(gold flecked)
she looks good
enough to grab
by the shoulders.
check for that smile.
are you for real dead?
No comments:
Post a Comment