Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Or did you not possess the pocket calculator’s metermaid vocabulary Or were you in that mob not wrapped in a sociable blanket Or do you not think loneliness rhymes with hanky Or weren’t you also in your early thirties hanging around the beehive at Farmer’s Market, the temple of dangerous teens And was the shadow not cast by a mind rotating And weren’t you getting very close to the edge of the swimming pool And didn’t Beyonce frogmarch across your wire and subsequently trip it

Or was this not in fact the nerd sex cardboard creepfest Or could it have been the country-folk record I’d so desperately looked for in Jurassic Park Or does fried chicken hunt in packs Or might my hand (the one that writes funny, the left one, the one that basically can’t write) not be linked to magic Or has it already started, the chewing by which I am constantly surrounded And could this be the whore’s first day knitting NASCAR jerseys And how jam-packed is the meth-head’s head really, with asthma baptism’s crazy sleep gasses Or will you miss the emergency call because you have been too irritated and distracted and sort of enamored of a sequined ferret And how did your fingers look after giving the mobile apothecary a valet, and have your wits subsequently been reclining carefreely on some distant marvelous shore

And would your soul’s little stunt sit well with porn folk And had you been orphaned by a shrug And/or would they slobber on your untimely death

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