bob munchkin had a rifle in his silver pants

lungs rising from the smoke
the man dipped slowly into cement
wagged and waved
cautiously insane
creeping past the bed womb
with his eyes on the guy’s prize
ova paranoia on the foyer
past regret in a handicap spot
whistling Bob Munchkin
had a rifle in his silver pants
ova and ova
again

with the moon’s death
he would cease seizing
and finger the home from here
sleeping dead forever
‘till the bitchslappin’ sun
steals his chains and underwear
and people must be dealt with
one way or another

he would exist limitless
if he knew how to milk that cow
pale and centuries old
parked in the shade shimmering
with god stuff
and money bursting from the holy ass

The bottom’s gonna come up suchly
and kneecaps are gonna shatter
he knew he saw the future
somewhere close

Prophecy In Grease

1.
beneath an abnormally large Petoskey stone he found
the storied remains of Obama’s ancient scalp,
dusty and tough like dinosaur hide, unquestionably
historic, luminescent, holographic,
desired by all anthro-ish men and women
donning straw and canvas hats,
combing what once was the shores of the great
lake itself, Michigan, the wettest land of all,
all dried up and sold to the ticket scalpers
outside the ruins of the Silverdome

2.
fill this monster space with muenster cheese and light it with fire
say the scientists, then scream OPA! toward the nipply
Midwestern horizon, let the fatzos jump in,
have their fill, grease dripping from their asses,
hairy and cottage cheesed in the night’s once-humid atmosphere

3.
these dreams are as real as the pain of a hypochondriac
who actually broke his tibia, crying for his mother on the last rock
to the shore, howling at the moon for change and progress
and Obama, Obama, Obama until his breath is hoarse

4.
(from the North the migrants creep down like Atari centipedes
wiggling through the trees to the bottom, to their adversary,
who is much smarter, he simply blasts them and deposits their
electric remnants into the Great Lake beds)

5.
there is a room in the Bush Wing of the White House
that only has one thing in it, resting central on the green marble floor,
a two-cent piece honoring the fallen millions
of Iraqi goats and chickens, their noble heads serene and heroic,
the tail end being a single Afghan poppy, and the people say
“Bush’s head is buried under that coin”
and
although nobody quite believes the rumor,
none of them dispels it outright

The Wait

your shadow fidgets
under yellow streetlamps, waiting
as the red taurus squeaks by
and parks up the street,
just beyond the old train station

as usual:
a figure emerges from the car
large and hunched and impatient,

he begins tossing crack and porn
from his trunk in a rush

your shadow watches and waits,
and when the man and his car
are gone, you rush in
to devour the goods

+++

you wait every night by the station
in a canopy of an overcoat
feet attached to your shadow
unable to wake yourself up

at work, eating a zero bar

The grip behind my eyes
and all eyes
is tighter now than it was
when we were children

candy bars are shrinking
and somehow my gut has expanded
with this less-real food

yet I can’t help but notice
these pills are so novel:
shapes and sizes galore!

I spend my evenings
filling med cups with an anti-schizophrenia bouquet
and showering nude men
who sometimes piss on me

The All-American Smile

Nathan Shapperd was a clean slate.

Normality embraced him like
a friendly pair of silk underwear.

It was hard to go wrong with him,
he was so consistent.

Reliable.

Never deviant from his own norm,
a perfect little ball of bland perfection,
a living testament to what Americans could be
if they acted like Americans.

Friendly and generous.

Materialistic
and a surefire provider.

A sparkling slice of white bread,
never to be eaten.

Comfortable behind the wheel
of a mega-sized shopping cart,
a mega-sized SUV,
and a John Deere mower.

A smile the size of a grapefruit quarter.

Completely hollow.

Beneath Nathan,
in the basement,
a creature lived
who knew the secret to Nathan’s being.

It was his wife.

His wife, the subwoofer.

When she spoke,
she sounded like East side Detroit at midnight,
a deep thumping and humming
felt vibrating the bones of all the neighbors.

Nate glued her to the concrete floor
using some spackle
he picked up at the Home Depot.

He wouldn’t let her leave,
especially since she knew what he did at night,
when the late late late late show surrendered
to the infomercial
and the purple void seeped in through the crooked blinds.

She would bellow out to him:
It’s not the looks we go for,
it’s the personality.

You men are afraid of other good-lookin’ guys,
but who you should really be afraid of
are guys with character.

And a sense of humor.

She talked softly,
but she boomed.

The hardwood floor beneath him shook and creaked.

You Wicked Camel

Goodbye, you wicked camel-
you don’t need me.
I’ll be in the corner hiding
from the eyes of my common sense.

I’ll make it, so don’t fret-
you don’t need to worry at all.
Leave that expensive task
to me.

Sweating, grunting, heaving balls-
you can find me there.
These are the things I’ll do
when we part.

I’ll often search for you
in the deep angled spaces,
forgetting that you’re gone.

Honey Taco

honey, grease up your taco

I’m diving in feet first
wearing blue raspberry edible undies
and smoking a bubble gum cigar

let’s make pb and j’s
with 12 nut bread
and name our babies after smurfs

let’s create steam
from vitamin D milk
and forget about the finances for once

we can poke around a bit
and wait for the grey carton of fresh eggs
that we can never, ever eat

honey, squeeze your bear head
whilst I deposit the mayonnaise
across your hot cross bun

let’s tie the twizzler knot
and stick around forever,
like that jar of vaseline
underneath the kitchen sink

Invisible/ Invincible

So many things in the air hanging
chads leaders fates of nations
wireless signals satellite feeds
bad decisions misunderstandings

the man on the tower holding on
fingers tongues words lovers
music rapt audiences powerful drugs
incomplete dreams impossible futures

“Who’s Gonna Fuck You When You’re Dead?”

is certainly the best thing I’ve overheard
so I can’t take credit for it
but I can relay the splendor to you
and we can both laugh and chuckle

the couple was gone down the street
before I could react
they were incredibly fast walkers
for being so grey and poorly dressed

but what the man said
in that moment
has stuck with me for ten years
and by now the guy is a wise sage
in the rolodex of my memories

(published in Madswirl)

Cabin Fever

 

The spine of the snow worm
clings to the molded wooden railing

patterned ice vertebrae
of ovals spiraling away
refracting light onto the beige siding

and a shadow of season’s death
still being chewed in it’s frozen jaws
falls toward the pit of my stomach
spreading cold rock panic

2.

They found him
eighty-six years and thawing
negative twenty wind chills
stole his breath-
his son claimed he had Alzheimer’s
but others know better
being permanent residents of Michigan
and all

3.

We aren’t supposed to be here
and those who could migrate
did

There’s always death in the air
‘round this time of year

the brave hunker down
blow their noses
and wait for the finish