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.