I jotted down the date on a calendar my lawnmower lost its shit.
Psychotic confetti viscerally bubbling up –
the slaughtered watermelon in 8-bit stemming from dark dreams
hitting the window leaving its irremovable pale-pink gore.
Only many years later, I licked the window. And got sick.
Therapy in prison. In a controlled setting.
Observing its placid expression, I was reminded of preserved meat;
I thought of brain damage hanging from hooks.
Its nipple-like haircut on the pub-green gas tank: really,
nothing this closely ever resembled a barbershop maggot's.
Mood of user of lawnmower typically heightened.
Mood of user typically oscillating between
marching band and spaceship mini golf –
but no more!
A seriously cool prison mugshot of the lawnmower, though -
so notorious around the neighborhood,
one seriously badass animatronic pig skeleton –
before it was fed countless placebos accessorized
with prison food – attempting the futile voyage
into the deeper regions of the beast's psychic botulism.
Though by now a mummy and positively repulsive, any
social situation to the toe it had lopped off, meanwhile,
is an opiate; the toe can scarcely move, so cripplingly
gregarious it has become, since its dismemberment.
Even though social pleasures to the toe don't easily cloy,
the next morning it's still so many wrinkles in green leather.
14 January 1996.