Everyone in my photo collection
Looks as if they’re saying
“Don’t point that thing at me”
So I screen all calls from friends
But answer when salesmen and creditors call
To indulge my many hang-ups
I write polite letters to Tommy Hilfiger
Imploring him to make more baggy pants
And lessen the competition.
Once I get gnawing, I grab armfuls of dirt
From some community garden
About to be bulldozed to make way for another condom,
Drop it in the bathtub and turn on the showerhead
To have some mud to mate with.
I plant corn on graves until Hendrix
Or at least Charlie Parker comes back to play taps
And deer hold “Take Back the Night” rallies in the suburbs.
The population bomb explodes backwards.
I remove enough fat to get my ribs back
Without Eve . . . and her promises . . .
Then I turn on the heat and kneel before the coffee girls
The better to pop the pimple you call earth
And ram a couple of bottling plants
Down the carbonated throat of the sky
Until the sun comes in, bright but cold
Like the city I’m trying to escape with paint
Or by being shipped in on hand trucks like live lobsters
No one can handle till the head chef
Rings up a striking basketball player
Who could use a little cash
(if this takes awhile, good; let them know hunger in their bibs)
Who ends up liking the job so much
It’s the end of sports as we know it.
Then Saturn shines as bright and big as the moon
And it’s not even dark enough to be warm yet.
Mostly, though, I watch dust motes, and see
I cannot be consumed unless I’m consuming.