Monday, November 09, 2009

If in the autumn a plesiosaur

in denying its own existence
holds a banana in
its finny hand
walks only slightly hunched
then turns back to
market its poontang
splaying its vast flaps
all ocean-wide and shit
manifests like a ship's
manifest, then on that landed
ship
we could build a stove
and stoke it with our faces.

If, then, assuming in summary
a face appears in meat things
far and
cooling in coolers that drip burnt
umber--but
a face none knows like one
knows the hairy
chin of Christ--then
then an end must come
to all things under
Hustler, published still by
Larry in Indiana.

Jesus' dick has a chin
that you'll punch lightly
so that someone blushes
so that
the fall of man comes
the banks fail
the car companies
fail the Detroit Lions
who have to now play
games in Afganistan while
searching for Bin Laden
having already been
laid in
the process--sex boat
scandals true--then playing in
Beijing where the creepy, short
Chinese play for free
having already rejected
pay in
American dollars or
Chinese dolls
Made in America.

I feel like saying
"fuck you" here--to myself--
since when
I say "fuck you"
in general
it makes me feel like
auctions have been won for
very vast plesiosaur
flaps, catching wind on the ocean
taking me away
to animation:
James Cameron directs
groundbreaking 3-D effects
of my vast balls finally
that finally sway in jibberish
draw tight
rest on your chin
like Jesus

a baby, kindling
for our autumn oven
Honey.

2 comments:

ab said...

we all now need to write poems about the capital poontang

kari f. said...

hi. you are my favorite writer.