the real subject is always you

In my vulture covered chest there is a maelstrom

inside which God’s Walkman

plays the sound of the sun.

I’ve tried to weld it onto my sheet-like head,

but it just won’t melt properly.

Maybe I should go get the H-bomb

and jump into Turkey Pond with it,

volcano into the air, and pop tart

off the docks and into the hands

of rabid chimps.

Then I will tear my eyes out with a hose for once,

instead of giving birth to a bloody word,

my throat pushing the little demons out

between my lips like a pig’s northern lights.

I do like my ham disintegrated.

God sure does like to floss his skyscrapers

with his people toothpicks.

But pigs like to eat anything that haunts rooms.

Broccoli is a crotch found in the bushes.

Large, green molester of Kansas,

hulk presence twirling you under,

aliens explode and shatter my ears into leaches,

I hook into my skin in rows of great, white warmth

through which thread spins its way

back to earth, revolving bushes that hold thoughts

by the side of the pond, quiet as winter

loons scattering like a scream on a stick.

The clouds marching in are supposed to take me

to Bobby Flay for grilling.