Sunday, March 1, 2015

Lobster in the Rain

Space drools obsidian
On the mountains while I interact
With milk. I don’t really care for milk
But I do like sunlight
Served at room temperature
And this is how I became president
Of a fingernail. I think of orchids
And orchids appear in my mind
Somewhat crudely, like the drawers
In the bedroom filled with stratospheric
Underwear & the truth of crochet
Bursts like a balloon, shreds
Of plastic falling to the floor
Where they bounce into analgesics
Harvested from spider venom
Is there life on Mars? No doubt
There is a ghost hoeing the earth
Of a field near Walla Walla, Washington
Who smells of ceremonial resins
Smoked spices, burnt citrus, dry ice, quarry stone
Seaports, old flower petals, overripe fruit, spent fuel
And yesterday’s coffee. This is the ghost
Who was the first kid out of the house
To build a snowman. Sometimes fate
Feels like a turnstile
In apprehension of itself. Once I dropped a nail
And it sounded like an epitome
Edged with sawdust
Beside the white chickens. I need a haircut
Obviously, though the next time I decide
To construct a strawberry I won’t stir my brain
With a banjo but watch the dark genius of space
Arrive on a flatbed truck
Like a 2-ton stone of Chinese jade
And fall into consciousness slowly, like a gray sky
Flirting with the description
Of a lobster in the rain


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