Puddles

6 Nov

mr t

Puddles

Helen I..I mean you…I mean meatloaf-or not meatloaf. No. I mean meatloaf. And vampire comics. And songs about plastic robots vs. cream soda. Rampaging typewriters and the martyred ribbons that have nothing to do with it. Your eagles have landed and I’m having a hard time processing the most latest information.

This information pertaining to what it is that it pertains to. I feel like Pearl Harbor. Literally. I feel like a shitty movie and a real place that has seen death and experienced first hand the sneakiness involved in such attacks. Did you know that the CEO of Mothers Against Drunk Drivers name is Chuck? It’s true. And just because your new boyfriend dresses like Perseus, that doesn’t make him Perseus.

This thing is also true. Today in the street I saw two red trucks following each other. It must be mating season. This must be war. Arcadian, do you take quarters or should I get tokens at the bar? Orgies of raw cauliflower and green peppers rained down upon our last moments together’s abundant absence of generic switchblades and believable guitars–but fuck it.

What’s in a puddle? dirt, bits of stone, rain water, trapped weather, snake prints and squirrel droppings, the color brown and many ripples, worms, leaves, bugs that swim, bugs that can’t swim, reflections from hell of heaven, everything you’ve ever felt for me. Everything I’ve ever felt about you.

(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)

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