Blight of the Fumblebee

bumblebee.jpg

This is some other place.
This is some other place.

This is where they gather,
the giant neon bumblebees and their riders
with blueberry heads, banana heads,
and skinny jockey bodies.

This is where they trade secrets.
This is where they hide.

We aren’t supposed to be here.
Except we’re mounted on our own bees
of celadon and magenta.
Maybe we are supposed to be here?

***

What city is this?
Why is the record shop cleaned out?

The streets are slick silver mirrors
and the enormous billboards are snapshots of us smiling
satiated and chubby-cheeked.

The sky rains pennies every few minutes
and dirty little boys scurry around in loincloths collecting at our feet,

while a voice inside our heads tells us not to worry,
we may not have coins but we have credit
in the form of the swirling energy patterns transpiring in our throats and chests,
feeling out the universe, shaping it randomly,
without love or hate.

Slowly we buzz up toward the shimmering pink horizon.
Poor, yet on the backs of magnificent creatures, escaping the slums.

***

Somebody is reciting Ramakrishna from the wet maize clouds.

Somebody is reciting Ramakrishna from the wet maize clouds.

Somebody is reciting Ramakrishna from the wet maize clouds.

I’m sure of this, but not so sure that Ramakrishna ever spoke.

***

My bee is celadon, yours is magenta,
the sky is like shiny pink tinfoil in a gentle wind.
Every so often the background crinkles.

We bumble through, humming “Whip It” out of tune.

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2 Comments

Filed under poetry

2 responses to “Blight of the Fumblebee

  1. I bet it tastes like. . . nerf?

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