498 Readings | 1 Rating

Saran Wrap Orgy

From the pile, I pick the single mom
with the athletic body who looks like

she made the decision (child raising) to go it alone.
Are you feeling better now? I ask her,

pushing a polyethylened tit or arm away from my face.
This is the first time I got here

at the utopian time she says
through her mouth hole that keeps tearing wider

at every over-pronounced long O.
Oklahoma oviraptor she says,

fingering the zipper on my snow suit
unmoving under a skin of plastic.

How small this all seems I scream
and the frustrated groaning in the room

gets chopped probably an octave in collective,
group emotion stuck floating

like a Moses crib bobbing against a Nile rock.
I’d like this percolating tension to endure,

I’d like this tension to get mentioned
in the dentist lobbies of the parallelograms

we put our future lives in
because squares are too easy and rhomboids aren’t.

Obviously, I’m a dented can
but maybe there’s a solarium out there

worth checking out, walls of windows
they let you run through

while videotaping the whole thing
which becomes the basis

of a summer blockbuster about you.
Or maybe they put you at the lip

of the escalator to Hell,
like a teetering child in a split foyer,

give you handfuls of flash powder
to chuck at the abyss

because that normal type of burning
could never be special enough for you.
Posted 12/03/11
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