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