COMING AT IT FROM A REMOTE LOCATION
I was slapping on the spackle,
walling up all the insect cracks,
only one nightmare came in black and white,
with devil-may-care colors everywhere else.
I had one fake memory at the shoreline,
one Mack the Knife in my pocket,
going Dutch with a vengeance,
quizzing everything in sight including myself backwards.
My lemon-squeezing tree had a very hard summer in the sun.
For some reason there were plenty of eggs
in the community basket case and muffins reached
the speed limit to the empty planets faster than my heart.
A crosswalk to the Milky Way allowed me to check
my rubber ducky at the door as I got ready
to ride a dead horse to the moon during rush hour.
Now my petrified forest is buttered up on the hill.
Sugar cubes began doubling for rocket fuel,
with a side order of toast serving as the tongue of invention.
I fed carrots to my spaceship, crawling up an itch.
I collapsed in a saddle of sleep with a tucked in
shirt and pleated trousers worn to impress the devil.
There was smoke going up the chimney as one last
tree tilted toward a shaky Tuesday.
There are enough tea bags in my cushion to sink China.
My youth went into its Jello stage with my Presbyterian
pride living out its years with a Catholic convert.
She became my unfinished woman, my unfortunate
rebel serving up a kettle of red spiders.
I had no desire to stay in bed on punctuation day.
There was magic and loss in holding her hand.
She left me naked in all caps
and begging to be nothing but invading sand for a century.
I attempted to use a skeleton key to turn her knees into hope.
My begging became all shaped like medicated soap.
I am nothing but the long neck Danish kid dying
to tumble three digits into the rising sea.
Crowing from atop a dogwood tree in a remote location,
I contemplate joining all the demented gods splashing in our memorial fountain
with a philosophical hangover and a growing hunger for despair.
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