Eight
Poems by Ken Wainio Author's Links |
Hand There's a hand in my garbage I throw it out cursing my friends It comes back lively as ever playing solitaire. I kick the table It scuttles away under the bed Why do I get such hands as this Which miss the point of no return Which fall asleep making dead spider fists. Only to reawaken when another brother wants to feel your garbage I have to put up with many such hands They grab you like leftovers Like a nightshift sack lunch Like a greasy gearshift These hired hands They snatch a nightstick and crush your balls. You may see a palm reader. You may take up boxing But no gloved fortune operates their touch. Lost and found under the kitchen sink Crust They throw me a crust Ok I take it They throw me another crust I eat the dirt right out from under them I uncover a bag in a mass grave It has eyes painted on it to throw off thieves Grave thieves are rampant in this country I open the bag but it's only a sacrificial child Who knows what the gods expect from such a rotten kid. Ancestor worship Dead tribes heading into heads so dead they have been here before mythology. Witch doctors waiting for the pizza to arrive Beauty It comes at you from the side It comes like crows afraid of mirrors Like water upset by noon wind By the guffaw of timeless sightseers I never noticed how beautiful you were until I saw you upside down in a fountain of trapezes wearing a necktie tightrope I would have handed you my oriental handkerchief but your strawberry gaze, transcendental as menopause, was already China blue in a riptide living room, everybody surfing. The refrigerator full of mermaids The view from my lakeside cottage directly upon your shipwreck The Habitat of Squalls Each molecule is a spaceship You realize when you're dead No speculation art poetry This engine has no starter Out of time are assembled fabrics You look great today. Tomorrow I'll dig your grave and be your six foot flower. Pollen drifts across the water, smoky harbor hands fish in oblivion. Candy stars open. Dread flags are torn up for clothing. White whales give the password. A semi-fluid secretion of old arithmetic shadows How a slight child touched your dreamy face no questions asked. How we get away from words and live. I need you more than Tarzan Jane. Her tranquil smile asleep in distant lightning on a pile of eggs. The ape man's vision saved like a New Age crocodile In the Bush A tin roof with sniper Breasts like magnets Anyone can jam radar poetry The cat popped the orange balloon and worried the skin like a condom There is no karma assigned to being an animal. Pull back the foreskin of aboriginal dreamtime and follow the messiah's tracks to the virgin waterhole A voice in the next gas station repeats on the restroom wall Go find yourself in lively Jerusalem There's a Burning Bush down there Any cradle will do Dear Friend I'm sorry you're not here. Plato and Socrates are drinking in the kitchen. The shelves crammed with wisdom, occasionally ransacked by lost tourists. I'm high as a fly protected by lofty windows. Vodka is clearly the catalyst. Why the Russians loved French so much. A cocktail mixed with outrageous passion noted down by ravishing nuns I just awoke from a dream about doing time The sky is alert. July won't tolerate vigil. Evil eyes give off guarded flares. It takes immense courage to go to the door. The architects are gone and the jailers are here. They caught me in a bat cave in Virginia with an underage bat I was sentenced to death plus three million years in a guano factory. Now I fuck only insects An insect can be only a few days old and no illegal parts attached. Dead kicking bug legs on the bottom of manholes The gumshoe fly is still here confused by invisible glass. Horny sails point on the horizon The sky is a bad painter's nightmare. Blue void stuffed with white hotdogs. The clogged intestines of outer space writing home. There is no return address and the labels are upside down. This isn't jail. It's house arrest. I know the place inside out. A few words picked up like specimens of a broadcast before we had ears Rome Fell Give me a break. What fell Where when? Maybe it had a major operation Lost a few hunks but the vital signs are hitting the ceiling Rome fell in your dreams The real item is there Mold all over it for sure A Christian bacterial gravy in huge floppy growths Sure the cancer of lyres. Of popular growers of disposable pilgrims. Rome is what happened to rock stars of mineral time Look up Jesus in the phonebook See the Virgin in the yellow pages Just dial the Pope on guilty.com Confess online. I don't know the last name of anybody called Paul. Call Rome Hall of Appearances The Egyptians were terrified of rain It was a rare occurrence and they were terrified of change Of water eroding their beautiful painting Towering stone papyrus flowers rendered so lovingly melting away multi-dimensionally How they feared change. The exact monumental moment opening like the mouth of a child's sleepy mummy This is rare this is too much. We have been here before these flowers We are not alone. The seeds are deadly |
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