splat

There have been periods of apologies
-now is not one of those times-
where so wistfully I wander and
excuse myself before Rainbow Brite and
all her absentee fathers.
I walked at night, fed upon whiskey-soaked raisins,
picked flowers while trampling still others.
No more. This is not that.
My tickets continue to be valid.
Even if they are not,
despite this falling rain and how it smudges my ink-
I entered the park when I was born.
So naturally I beg to differ
when it comes to you coming at me
with that friendly holiday blade.
I'm no turkey.
I'm no stocking-stuffed surprise for your vacant hands-

Listen here listen to me listen to what I'm not saying,
the spaces between your words: listen:
There's a message in there somewhere
like "Tickle Me Dracula" howling under siesta suns
as the smoke rises into the costly blue nest of the willowy sky,
forming the nonchalant animal traffic of our babyhoods-
It says "love before you leave" because purple is the color of God and anthropomorphized school buses dissolve into elephants and chairs and then cotton. Let your heart swell beyond convention.
Let the singing begin.
It may take some time, but you will see
that even badly painted garage doors
become majestic in the horizon of an insect's dreams.

Shredded-Kitten Burrito

Take this toy and like it:



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To reach the library, I cut through the back parking lot. I wove my body casually inbetween various gleaming, stationary vehicles, headed towards the door. Lost in thought, my head was downcast enough to avoid any dull distraction. As I had almost cleared the candied matrix of cars I looked up finally, to see a clean path to the posterior entrance blocked only by a mousy wisp of a mother holding the hand of her tow-headed two-year-old. Immediately my left elbow nicked the passenger side mirror of some dark blue parked van and simultaneous with this bump, the little tow-head's books shot out from under his arm falling slightly behind him. They were nearly twenty paces ahead of me. It was as if by striking the automobile's stubby appendage, I struck the child. Was the van I hit theirs? This synchronistic occurrence may have only appeared as such. I wondered: Could the van be a mechanical voodoo representation of this otherwise unassuming parent and/or child? A demon pin-cushion in the form of a gas-powered carriage?
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As I was nearly asleep, last night, something occurred to me: "Is the new pope evil?" And then I considered all the consequences of such an pope, and how it would make a great 'world-wide conspiracy' story. I next, of course, realized that the new pope could also, most reasonably BE DICK CHENEY (dressed up differently and wearing secret papal make-up).

You decide: