I dare you to end up in Christian heaven.
Down here there’s always a letter
falling off a marquee
at the same time a land-speed record
over at the Salt Flats goes unchallenged
out of respect for a conscientious tinkerer.
Things stay unnaturally quiet waiting to be formed
and if you know the right people
and have the right wad of cash
you can change your last name to something longer
so lungs stretch when you’re summoned
in a panic.
Somebody’s always asking a visitor
if they want them to whip up something pink
A guy whistling Van Halen’s “Panama” puts
bull snakes in a pail and castaways
run a draw play on 3rd and long
hoping to not fumble the coconut.
The sun shines brave on the shoulders
of a guy in slacks.
At 7:36 a.m. on October 6 2018
I came down off the mountain with a sack full of rocks,
dropped them at the feet of my masters
before booking a flight to do an on-campus interview
for another job in higher ed in Columbia, Missouri
where I hope my colleagues would think me
a taut stalk of field corn
while they ordered ramen noodles on their phones.