I
The arrogance
the swagger are never gone
from me
I was raised in a shed
tear
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
II
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
"glockenspiel"
--Auckland Personnel Only--
then she types
"glockenspiel"
She reads how
t(w)o (wo)men
sex is desire
That dogma's domain
is tahol's domain
(Psychological
as existence)
& that tahol
means shithead
her son
who writes poems
Mama’s factoids
are forces
TOP SECRET as hen
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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