It’s time to publish your disaster.
Make it quick, distasteful, full of employees
Stuffing envelopes with their tongues,
Flicking their fingers at their teeth.
I read thirteen sonnets to the chickens
Hiding under the cackling stairs.
I suppose the crickets hear something too,
And then make some noise, applause
Or a calling out for critique.
Those poor legs, crusaders
Underneath the fourteenth line
Of a really lame iamb.
The disaster was something,
And then it was nothing.
Falling through the staircase, a bomb,
A boat – a simple sea dried up like a bee.
And then everyone spoke about it
Until their teeth fell out like cotton
And all words were mush, not dead,
Just taking time off to regroup.
While waiting for two hours in a gas line
Where the station attendant abandoned
Ship, the people stomped on one another
With raging heads and red heartbeats.
After the explosion I took a pill
And fell asleep with my hair on fire.
Luckily, it rained. Luckily, my sleep
Was deep as a gash and I couldn’t smell
My dreams burn and crumb, blow
Away with the chicken-feathers
Up into the blue-hot air, my eyes
Glossed up like expensive color prints.