by Jack Tricarico
The crutch in your nose poet
Sits on a park bench complaining about
“The uncle of his geometry”
Or maybe he means his geometric uncle
I don’t know. Sometimes he sounds
Like reversed Latin. Sometimes
He looks like compressed putty
Today he is clean shaven. Says:
“The past is redundant!”
I was thinking the same thing
It was neither the day
Nor the night
The sun and the moon
Were both glue traps
In the zebra skinned air
They permitted the clouds
Pink striped and polka dotted
But prohibited music
Unplugged and ready to riot
Crowds milled around
A friend brushed his shoes. Said:
“The wind is a rope of hornets!”
Actually it was quite hot
There wasn’t any wind
I was warned about drugs
Danger of brain warp
Like a piece of snot
Flicked in the dirt
A squirrel will eye you
A spider will take you away
And under a shadow
Like an ant in a church
The grass wanted sex
But I couldn’t get grounded
Merely a bug on a leaf
I wasn’t about to engage
With a fifty foot woman
Who couldn’t stop dripping
Her anteater’s tongue
I tried hiding
Talk about depth psychology
She ate everything
“Earthquake! Earthquake!”
An avalanche arrived
I was falling up
Others were with me
Like clusters of dead planets
We crashed into a small orgy
It wasn’t a small orgy
There was never a fifty-foot woman
I was never a bug on a leaf
I had to evolve further
Life as a virus is too risky
They’re always trying to zap you
With antibiotics, or wrap you around
Some unpronounceable name
There are other versions to this story
That keep happening like an immense cobweb
Some memories have to be clubbed, squashed
Or otherwise obliterated. I pay attention
To small print: “…if recurrence continues…”
They were whipping a skeleton on television
One night. Aroused by the sight of this
Somewhere someone was jerking off
I just knew it. Starting to do it myself
The dog swooned in her sleep
