STAR WARS FAN POEM

A box cutter can reduce a napkin to lifting and falling

awkwardly, to turning slumberous. A light saber can't

do this. At the restaurant on Tatooine, both

respectively turn the napkin's movements into a

fair imitation of bat-wing air guitar. 

 

In the center of the table, a paperweight lies

decoratively in a bear trap – meant to put the patrons

in a social frame of mind. Making the sound of being

endowed with a jitter-organ – pacing the gregarious gene's

loud dial. Luke absently squeezes a french fry, petrified at the

sight of it unreeling its bitter chalk from within.

The Millennium Falcon sleeps on its appendix.

Han Solo's pocket protector bubbles over with sweat.

C3PO's aphasia when he later sees him naked is the weird 
hiss he likes to adopt when moonlighting among the other droids 
as shadows and layers of bad behavior.

The wookie hadn't gambled its way into pop culture;

rightfully, he was recognized earlier at the restaurant as

the doe-eyed philanderer. Practically a household name.

It's his piss-stain on the welcome mat outside.

THE DEMONIC MILK MAN

Laughter properly villainized,

scattering all the spiders

on the flower,

crystals in the placenta.

Mostly blue ones like intravenous Orcs.

With the help of all the nuclear conditioner

in a hair's world, this process

almost siamesed

the spiders' cheekbones.

Brokenness known to

the Happy Meal toy

demon milkman 

 

- draped in gold silk

some hormone-enhanced silkworms

in a sweatshop had made

for him, who'd fucked you –

Above the pain in his chest

his dog was ordered to put a hat.

In the large dark cavity

head-muck supposedly Play Doh-ed

its own little weather system,

which felt good.

Of course, like a scarecrow separating

in the wind, this entails major atomic overload:

a force that once put a potato

behind the karaoke mic,

told it not to sing but to hover

and hover

and hover

mechanically dolphinized its face;

as if it were a fish bowl, bleached it;

and into the same potato's asshole

fired a miracle from

a Nerf gun.

ALIEN ANAL PROBE

Old people wish they'd stop getting scars from doing [so many goddamned]

crosswords [the whole time]. Did the community do anything to help?

They prayed that the communal vegetable garden would be spared and

eventually the death ray did fuck off. But apart from this,

what else have we done to stop the menace from entering the squares

in the crossword puzzles of the elderly?

Thanks to poor circulation, so many graves are going bad.

They're literally rotting. In so many ways every buzz saw is bad for

the brain cells. They literally start stinking. How many cult members

had to watch and meditate on, and spiritually staunch, the

horror at the core of the 80s instructional video? The lens was attached to

a dangerous fragmentation, stunning and overwhelming, and I

remember bad breath in my neck when told by a gnome-shaped

sibilance in the cathode dark:

“Only one can look through it.”

What, like, the chosen one?

Two thumbs were bubbling in a vat. You had to thump 'em down

really hard, else they'd pinch your nipple. They smelled like dicks

and like my very own dick's transistor, they had been grown in a mold.

The delicious overkill attained in dentistry when they turn one's mouth

into ground beef, evidenced by a woman sitting on the sofa.

“Don't worry. Only a little bit of witchcraft will be used to

extract your suppository.” She had nothing special to add.

When they removed my uncle's hemorrhoid he is rumored to have

gibbered the whole time about the crop circles, asking, “How else did

those alien motherfuckers do them other than with an electric can opener?”

He was also gibbering on about AIDS, even when the doctors

assured him that AIDS enters subliminally, far more subliminally

than this splatterfest, and then only via a frog's nose hairs.

MY CRACK PIPE LOOKS GHASTLY

I wish my gurney would become the flying beast again

its colors three-toed deep, wading through nail polish remover

general-purpose decrement sucking somehow on a Tetris monstrosity

the robo-nurse still chewing its gum thoughtfully

I knew a chemical compound between jaw hooks,

causing extreme pain to ears, underpart a raw whitish

dimple sneezing eerily under the gas station halogen

of higher cerebral functions

employing your cheeks and the little organ in back

of the throat doctors still don't have a name for

on my crack pipe's creepy thorax, its cortex screeching farty

in a tire swing; it whoops, a NSFW humanoid apparatus

ribbed, flaccid-skinned, hanging bonily on pegs

gills of Post-It Notes for fading discoveries about Twilight Zone

underwater drowning, the soggy specter of the toilet paper tube-man

cartoon morphology wrapped in standard-issue sheets

just another form of hospital that depression

likes to manifest in

THE EXTINCTION OF THE DINOSAURS

without excitation of the fork in the ice age,

a lot of samples of condensation

lie coiled within the pizza's

special zone,

but a comet decapitated

passers-by, their foreheads'

atlases shallowed

the first caveman brothel had a

cutout imitation

of a fire; geometric patterns

tilted so your brain ended up suffering

bunker parallax,

dirt-spit in your eye

abruptly, in the stone cold room,

a masked Mr. Potato Head

hologram: 'I am the ninja clitoris!'

the metrosexual dinosaurs' adhesive-filled

foot baths blamed for their extinction –

why else had

so many fossils been found

within arm's reach of fruit,

sirloin steaks, tubs of caviar, ice-cream –

as if glued to the floor?

but a time-traveler had seen it

in their public spaces:

not a diffusion of

bone-less winds, rather

an upskirt zoo-

powered,

cosmogonic 
cube - groomed until raw

so something else must have killed them

POISON EMPATHY

My drain is seeking another pattern or knot-style

in trapping its hair. Is it the new public shame chemical

my body produces and must have cellularly

begun to shed? It takes practice to trap the hair

this way, to arrange it just so – it will take

a good grasp of the logic underlying Lego pole dancing.

I was ashamed when another cyclops yesterday pushed

his/her shopping trolley past my black Mitsubishi –

no one can stand the sight of the handicap

sticker I've got on the back. After a day like this,

I take a shower and the drain clots with hair, while

glowing faintly. Of course I appreciate that EVERY handicap

sticker, if you squint at it, if you invoke a mood that fills your

eyes with clever little prisms, features a Kung Fu master in

the middle of kicking a foe in the nuts or smugly breaking

a cow's neck. This isn't a bad message I'm sending with the sticker.

I'm not even asking for sympathy, sticking it to the back

of my car. A week ago when I started the classes

it was quite hard to get used to the idea, the

feeling, of sitting next to a rotten corpse;

but not only do the rotten corpse and I now go to the same

bakery; our life improvement classes both encourage

showering after touching the drippy handle of human empathy.

And when I shower, the drain looks like this. But when the

corpse showers, the drain is pristine and even smells nice.

Weren't we all there to curry human empathy?

I touch it way more than the corpse does, or I bet even

the cyclops pushing his trolley. There are a few moments

afterward in which one doesn't know what next to expect -

very soon there's the feeling that traditionally

comes after a quick decapitation. One ceases to exist.

A turd floating in a jumpsuit, all of a sudden a different … personality

type. A dildo instead of a pacemaker. A nailgun

that can aim through, without necessarily disturbing, a

pretzel's heartbeat. A tandem bike that subjects

its occupants to electrocution, with the sound of a million

orphanages ringing from its spokes. A shining exemplar of

Victorian industrial design.

ANTIBODIES!

A dollop's despair projection-mapped

on the toilet's interior. Definition higher in

the nightmare bulb's lurch; slopes swathed

with its smut. I think soon larvae will be

clotting the machine's husk, less smooth

than the epithelial linings of a

puppy's mouth. My heels, caught in its concrete,

one grade of unnatural higher. Webbed

and growing dense with arteries in

the morgue fridge, semi-translucent.

Cancellation of this war is nothing like

combining the germ's 7 pretty digits –

which are integral to making its pantomime

of attacking antibodies offensive, sort

of in bad taste. Circumventing excrement

on the pavement with the dubstep;

or causing excrement with same.