In my vulture covered chest there is a maelstrom
inside which God’s Walkman
plays the sound of the sun.
I’ve tried to weld it onto my sheet-like head,
but it just won’t melt properly.
Maybe I should go get the H-bomb
and jump into Turkey Pond with it,
volcano into the air, and pop tart
off the docks and into the hands
of rabid chimps.
Then I will tear my eyes out with a hose for once,
instead of giving birth to a bloody word,
my throat pushing the little demons out
between my lips like a pig’s northern lights.
I do like my ham disintegrated.
God sure does like to floss his skyscrapers
with his people toothpicks.
But pigs like to eat anything that haunts rooms.
Broccoli is a crotch found in the bushes.
Large, green molester of Kansas,
hulk presence twirling you under,
aliens explode and shatter my ears into leaches,
I hook into my skin in rows of great, white warmth
through which thread spins its way
back to earth, revolving bushes that hold thoughts
by the side of the pond, quiet as winter
loons scattering like a scream on a stick.
The clouds marching in are supposed to take me
to Bobby Flay for grilling.