An eco-sensitive minimalist, he tagged his targets
on oversized Post-it notes. Cops could never make
the graffiti charge—willful defacing—stick.
Unison riffing must be accompanied by a skullcap.
The new F-16s carry Fire-and-Forget missiles, so pilots
can concentrate on their subsequent tasty targets.
My dog’s on drugs. This morning she said to me,
A wedding is just like a funeral without the dead
body. Sick as a dog, a dust mop with legs, Daisy.
A pissed blue-collar stiff with a tourniquet tie
says on the talk show, She don’t deserve welfare.
Baby sitters, jobs, he pustulates. Ninety percent
of all welfare recips are unmarried women. Frisky
matinees show nuns scowling at redheads and blondes
in spangled minis doing the frug while the boys
in the Coke-bottle glasses pony awkwardly. Fear
always has a reason. Upside down on El Capitan,
out of rope, capilene undies not wicking correctly,
synchilla pilling and day-glo booties glaring in mean
Sierra sun, for instance. A low buzz like fuzz face
in your amp, intermittent. A pipe bomb in your lingerie
catalog, at large among the end of summer specials.
The portly ex-coach buttons his vest against angioplasty,
clears his epiglottis, and returns to the color. No one
can deny a lot of life is poorly shot. The grizzled vet
with ruptured spleen and eye damage audibles at the line
of scrimmage while water-fetching Bolivian girls ask
for your help in lush but stark Sunday slick rags.
A cross word for the Contras is discouraged. Meanwhile
back on Wall Street, the expansionist CEO of American
Airlines vows never to buy another plane. So burned
he’s currently in treatment. Whole mountains of debt
and no pitons except in stomachs on line at unemploy.
For the role of her boyfriend his chest got waxed. Men
come at you with rotating knives and sucking hoses
in the middle of REM sleep. Why not clean your grandma
with Q-tips and toothbrushes like they would a car
in Bel Air? God is in the detailing. Pinstripes
bleed like Red Wings gung ho for fisticuffs. Violence
shows the absence of power, quote unquote. Tell that
to the lady whose leg was brightly snipered yesterday.
The body song continues: those with bifocals fall
on escalators, Teddy Roosevelt liked to tap-dance,
a one-pound spool of spider web would unroll all the way
around the world. Some men only enjoy sex with breast
cancer victims and now there is a magazine especially
for them. The ads are Miesian. Not a cell in your body
was there seven years ago. The suggestion of change
is plausible. Even snoring can be cured with a simple
procedure: uvulopalatopharyngoplasty. The old party,
licking their right-wing mandate, warns that peace
is seductive but will just lead to war. Until Arafat
shaves, they won’t believe it. In seven years, a whole
new snorting herd of cells. Same old, same old. Saxes
on vinyl cue the dark chemicals, which drop the velvet
curtain on the thrust stage, draw a warm and soapy bath
for the mind, and snuff the mirrored candles like hit men.