Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Costuming

The sleepy chorus shades all cities
like the carving of a smiling pumpkin.
When some elements fall patted in nice spots,
they jump punks in the streets (touche)

and grow their own crops and ample words.
Every goddamn day (brush and floss)
the possum wakes up, budges.
If a dude at the Red Room

ends up with the flu,
people talk, "Alter the schedule:
Dork: Girly bodies, glitter,
fired-up jostle of grandpa's rifle,

Freddy Krueger furniture into oven,
bake his legacy for 20-25 minutes."
The mailbox in front of my house looks painted.
By the time she gets back, she of peanut butter, he must shout

his nice kitty eating the batter
to go to hell.  Get to work!
Never sleep alone, my feathered friend--stay up late!
The night floats like a fog--

grinding, buds, gags,
a jar of Cheez Whiz, distances,
the uppers, donuts which make you go "Go!"
If the actor would only paint instead!

In Tucson Arizona, the bumpy sky
leaves little room for clouds methodically
and blankets out like red sand blowing.
Every fall, pumpkins in the supermarket like sandbags.

Dad returns home.
Thus women submit themselves
and by a sort of genital jealousy hump
the leavings, the shadows, pissing in coffee,

the defiance, rubbing against the dark beans.
Then silver, they splinter--decrypt the nightgown's
jolting buzz.  The purse begins at dawn.
A child surfs across dusty toilets.

After Kenward Elmslie's "The Champ"

No comments:

Post a Comment