Sunday, December 26, 2010

NEW LAND

Why doesn’t the pilgrim have anything to talk about,
especially after taking Victorian heroin,
when he can’t even imagine the point of a
handbrake on a broom? Technology is still
in its infancy and we’d like to be easy on the
brute – we can’t keep faulting him for his ignorance –
but after a while it gets a bit tricky.

So many opinions flash through his mind
when he sees Charlie Brown, hooked to hairclips
hanging under the fat of the land, or hiding in a bin
and fermenting nicely during an apartment
heist commissioned by the pilgrim himself,
but honestly – how to formulate
these opinions? How to start pinning down
the mass of thriving, heaving gristle
in a suitable corner of the mind’s
vestibule?

Flush, then shoot an eye out with the
most inept handling of this futuristic technology –
opening a jar with toothpicks, adding bugs to
the fig in a glorious tribute to
the sweetness of the new land.
Toupees struck a cord with
all the wives’ pugs, while the honorary members
of the as-yet-embryonic TSA put a
rusty wire up the piano’s butthole.

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