Wednesday, February 9, 2011

O FAN ART, WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO CALL IT A DAY?

I leaned over 
and saw a gift basket with a dog inside. A real
dog. This was on the plaza where you could feel
a strange, motorized rhythm – epicurean car accessories
but still no actual cars, the plaza a
nascent carnival like a rising colorful burp
pummeled out on the chest’s crest, or via a crank on
the side of a fetus rattling and churning into life
the junkpile, its wide, super-intelligent eyes
glotzing all-seeingly at a spot just
below your chin.

‘It’s a jackal, not a dog – it’s a
jackal puppy, like, it’s going to be a proper jackal.’  
The glamorous clown says his diet consists
of ascending stairs; he has a lot to live up to
and by five o’clock this afternoon, he’ll
get a Beverly Hills blood transfusion. 
‘That’s the process of being brought to life
by an unexplained knee jerk.’ 
How big a threat is the little leaf interrupting me
while putting on my sweater?

It’s begun to snow although on
some of the equine ice sculptures
they’ve put knee pads in case they faint
and crumble and it’s still hot
enough for the food to go bad –
a Tony Danza look-alike mortician
bends over a rotten hotdog on the cobbled
pavement and rams a ballpoint pen
into its penis eye: early stages still, mostly plants
put YouTubers in intensive care – not
commenters, wonderfully descriptive trapezes
couldn’t find your troubled pee.

Sweet stickiness is a poor substitute for cohesion,
with immune systems running low on
the lives of women and children,
pig’s dye touted for its health benefits
and Craigslist praised for manufacturing more
and more species of wicker baskets.

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