Under My Wig
For my sins I was made detective.
It was a bitter scolding. Hotless.
She preened and pranced beside me.
I was beside myself near
a watermelon stand inspecting via fingertap
the ripe one for someone’s summer cookout.
Uninspired by theme songs I walk the parking deck
night after night dreaming of swamp grass.
Sins. Detective. Theme songs. Swamp grass.
Black fox, hanged bones gossip monotonous food.
Black fox, Christ god tears.
Black fox, my reinforced flesh shows no signs.
Black fox, under my wig, bonecracks.
A star within a star within a star near
the old fort full of gravel crunching
and little elbow room and lewd fish
in the lake below, woods in front
like barbed-wire crowns blessing the hub
of original make-believe.
Required Materials: Art 101
The making of a head requires three things:
a newspaper, glue, a balloon.
The newspaper: smudge, grudge, and an urge. History. Endless columns.
Upon the morn of broken hands and a lopsided promise turned
into cold coffee.
The glue: love. Ah love.
Twist off nipples. Spelunking the mouth.
Playground full of pebbles.
The balloon: a balloon. Pure.
Simple. Filled at the rubber navel.
Must break away from hand.
Deflate near sun.