GROUNDHOG DAY or BILL MURRAY MADE MORE MOVIES THAN THIS
Mayor, decisions build up and are a constant
problem. You choose to kiss baby squirrels
and I clamor to identify
with such pandering. They bound the air
between trees into a continuum
but where you and I come together is more
in our sweaters’ unraveling.
Details, details, details, of us,
who put them there?
Funny white men with disrespecting
facial hair, Mayor. Tell them to better
honor the time that throws us. Tell them better
they wake up with that Puxatawney
mammal in their mouths. The answer
to the proposed question is you, Mayor,
sky written all over my skull.
Fly your fly-strip banner over me,
undo simple weather predictions
of all brands, let the future’s definition
speed unclear, and if you must,
slap the sun in its blushing.
Let’s not fear what is falling apart
outside the door. Kick over the fences,
our bodies are made to be more than one,
our bodies are made for collecting.
PICTURE OF ME IN A TUB OF ROTARY PHONES
Mayor, I believe we are in love,
by which I mean I am your mistress.
I scream for you from the trees
outside my home but you are
distracted by this minutia of butterfly
or that giant bell ornamenting the sky’s expanse
with crackling sonar. What we are about
is a careless yet beautiful noise that carries
certain fidelity like small hands desiring
to flop into wet concrete. Your sound
is the mold for my ear and tongue.
You keep me waiting,
grown man that sleep walks his
way down a well to linger. The world’s
full of such wanderings I don’t know
where to turn or if there is no such thing
as a way out of this mirror. Our hammered
love could just as easily plug in
to reflect it’s strands of glowing gruesome
teeth. So often I make these calls
without my cords. When I look at you and see myself
buried in the clothes of a history
I don’t even remember, that’s when
for you I can no longer wait.
IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL IT HURTS MY FEELINGS
The vegetables are rotting out back
and the local distillery is flooding
with its own product. People are
drowning. I don’t even notice
so long as the electronic letters go
whirly-gig in the spinning machinery.
How do I draw myself to look well and vibrant?
The temper my existence depends upon
is a given number of gigabits
and how well they sit in my lap,
how they travel with weak desires for mobility.
Is no one else worried
about how hollow our ventricles really are?
Men fluent in full mustache, teach me your ways.