Aspirin Go-Carts
(or The time A couple of Hits were misses)
Itsy, bitsy
spiders
walking across my brain.
When is it time to call
the vicar?
or did you trade my golf card for a thousand boondoggles?
A small wire brush,
some toothpicks,
and maybe a cigar.
Why stop at the numbers and all those letters
why not catch a mirror?
Isn’t that your biggest picture
of the capstones
made of ice
mountains in the snow?
After all the crap flies,
will you sample tastes like bread,
or of fruit
from within the garden deep in your lovely dale?
I drank your wine
and I admit it
but I stopped at the mayor
he’s sending aces like a slackhammer
or the jack of hearts in gold peacocks.
Anyway
what time was your appointment
with the vicar?
Was it one or was it only two? I can ever remember him crouching
like a panther
or maybe a griffon
but I got through that by 1992.
The Wheel of Fortune
called
‘send a G-spot vibrator
and a pack of Marlboro and shampoo’.
they didn’t have any
black dresses
in your size,
but they had this
piece
of candy
and an apple…
made of ripe, red glue.
Sign the check over baby
It’s time to see the Corona Candlestick
of his eye
in the night time like a baby, blue-green goygarlo.
While I sat in my guitar
with your tool and a simple thing sifting for treasure.
And it didn’t matter
And what about
my soul
and my spirit
and a night on the town
like a ghost
in the hallways.
You know that tincan laugh
in my
soul? It wasn’t just yesterday,
it was today.
Isn’t riches better than right?
Or didn’t you learn that in school?
A maiden once sold me something,
but I left it on her nightstand
with a bowl of fruit and my glasses.
Yesterday aint today anymore,
and tomorrow sits on a rail track
with a troll or was it just his likeness
under a rainbow gastank
and in the darkness of the bottom.
and
our
soul.
like fire
in your eye
and hastiness
in your breath.
Wasn’t this what you wanted,
or did we sit in a puddle of mercy-killings?
Anyway, send me a song in
the middle of it,
somewhere where the Kalico Kats sing.
I didn’t ask for yellow custard
or this piece of shit harpy song either Castro.
Mice play all day anyway,
they ride on ears like
puke fungus popsicles
and the afterbirth of Hannibal Ayatollah your mother and a priest with V.D.
Once isn’t enough for a good time
eighty is plenty too much.
how did we cipher
your rhythm,
or was it the ante
that cost me your grief all that night?
Why don’t you put away
the caplets
three aren’t enough to kill the cow?
This isn’t the time for Easter plenty
or grabass with a green
jackass too.
Hector was your lover,
give it a blow.
He wasn’t your master,
or a slave,
but brother in soul.
I sat with her the other day
and she said,
quiet,
you had your turn.
now have a gas,
and a splinter
in the stern.
You know how it feels
like a drop of mercury
through that whole.
Now we know
not to play like evil children
in the garden
with all those spinning crow.
That was your last night
and things only got better,
for the worse.
After all the money
you named a carton of ink spots
the carnation
of limpid and
eyelids of ice in warm milk undergarments.
Read the ingredients.
This isn’t the end
but a picture
of blue-green plants which wonder
why the hell
we sat in a tunnel like brigands
in the east
cast
of your
sunburn
eyes.
This poem was published on the Reveille website on August 29, 2017.