The Goonies

Blood and guts etc. make me feel like a sinner,
their lead, the thing that makes everything plummet
gets grosser, and summer tourism briefly shuts down
because of this. Blob Watch calls in circumcision –
there’s a thing found on the beach, something has fallen
upwards through the skin that insulates nausea.
But this jugular cannot be truncated: it’s not a lawn
on which an animal has been slaughtered and then scoured
with some bloodthirsty lawnmower. So I send it out on
a flotilla, I stand there waving and my aura is gray…
The Goonies arrive, late as usual, out of breath you’re out
of breath – I tell them the squelch of their sandals too
can be frittered into a series of deaths and lie
there visible like a corpse in the reeds. They arrive loudly
and an octopus could’ve shot them over its shoulder
with a curved handgun so obnoxious they are. But the Squad
can see the object’s undercurrents: rip-off tools in their beanbags,
they can rip off the manhole cover and see underground. 
Briefly shutting down during their decent to the bottom
of the pit, their silent balloon walk in the dank air
is a nod to the Michelin Man somnambulist.
The most notorious new shoes drift in the forensic artery.
It’s no coincidence the cholesterol farmer’s favorite
new buzzword is ‘drifting’ amid a nest of tentacles:
I ‘drift’ expelled from the clique forming a manhole
cover of the summer’s photo’s iron particles,
the jugular’s hardassed central station, next stop
the feet and then the maggot metropolis.