Saturday, May 31, 2008

Bought Me a Mannequin Named Papa to Love with All My Heart


The arrogance
the swagger are never gone
from me

I was raised in a shed
without momma & papa
to lion over me

To deluge my ego
or buy me Oreos

(I am jesting of course)

Papa roves across borders
driven insane at four corners
of intrigues

Elastic as canon
ink runs from the corners
of his joust

Drastic in deformity

Plastic in American enormity
Papa gigs me
by my rigor mortis--
a raider of sign posts
& taverns
made eloquent by regard

In his country of woe
he motors towards nothing

His handful of sorrow
lags thru my crosshairs

I rhyme & I flatten
dear psychiatrist
mindful of cyclones
& greater than Kansas

(Hardly my Papa’s
little dumpling boy)

But Papa never believes
in my poems


Mama gestures
& puts on her glasses—
a dreamer in figuration

Her addiction's
a sentence ambiguous
as sign posts

Derivatives of marginal attraction
sing like a cobra
in reply

First she deletes
--Auckland Personnel Only--
then she types

She reads how
t(w)o (wo)men
sex is desire

That dogma's domain
is tahol's domain

as existence)

& that tahol
means shithead
her son
who writes poems

Mama’s factoids
are forces
she dishes out madness

Her porno’s no secret
grinds tumult to words—
"aloha, fruity pebbles"—
in someone else's
straight face

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