Potato Soup

My eyes fell out in July,
Landed right into my
Potato soup and buoyed
Ooey-gooey eyeball
In a hot steamy brothel
Of chopped chives
And pubic hairs.

Without eyes,

My heart sits like
A loaf of cornbread
To be washed down
By more water
And more blood
And potato soup.

The heat pounds

Its way out of my
Back, And I wish
I could remember
Another recipe.

Knitting Lessons

I’d like to tell
My sweet grandmother
We have plenty in common.

She knits scarves,

Multi-color sweaters,
Wool socks and gloves,
Snow caps.

I knit webs of

“Stay with me’s,”
And they come out
Looking more like
Genitals and orgasms
With a lot of empty
Spaces.

They’re all gifts

That no one wants
To wear.

What A Year

January begins with
A six person smooch.

Faulkner reminds me

Of truth in February.

Bradley Cooper looks

To rent my prison cell
In March.

April dresses itself in

Floating dog head
Horizons.

May flowers

Don’t ever
Flower.

June tosses footballs

In dog shit backyards
And tells me
I should really
Pay attention.
 
July sparkles as usual,
But it’s hardly clean.

August requires
Gallons of Lysol.

September plays

Boy Meets World
On repeat,
But it never gets
Any funnier.

October is horrific

As it should be.

November fills me

With dead bird,
Tips me over
Empty.

December pulls

Love-me-nots
From obnoxiously
Bridal bouquets.

A year,

Car wrecks
Appear pleasant.

Hands On

Halloween stores
Are running out of
Sad-faced masks.

Too many people own them,

That and bursting O-faces.

The agonized dramatic

Echoes ‘nonreturnable’ in a
Convinced nobody’s closet
Between fancy dresses
And Gatsby gloves
And a few OOOOOH’s.

“Oh, but it’s real ecstasy,

A man and a woman,
A man and three women,
The whole damned world population,
Real ecstasy.”

Ecstasy that leaves you

Standing in line for a
Customized latex pout
While pools of semen
Crust up your bed posts,
And nothing else.

So I’ve learned how

To get real ‘hats off’
Being real hands on
As the only person
In the room.

I’m good at it,

Self-pollination,
Letting the pollen swarm
Factory-fresh agonies.

It’s my greatest trick yet.

Three

Three keys hang
On my wall.

They don’t unlock

Anything.

No treasure chest,

Secret room,
Bound heart.

Three Robin’s eggs

Sit in a plaster nest
Upon my wall.

They don’t birth

Anything.

No feather fluster,

Daughter,
Son.

Three swans swim

Upon my wall.

They don’t eat or breathe

Anything.

No water treads,

Flipper foot kicks,
Happy honking,
Or any real grace.

Three lovers sit shelved

On my wall.

Three protected apes

With eyes, ears, and mouths
Covered like I can’t with
Only two arms.

They don’t do human

Anythings.

No palms to lend,

Hearts to swell,
Love to serve.

I sit and watch

Inanimate trinkets
Not move.

Like Ladies

“Like ladies,”
She says, “All good ladies.”

Dip your hands in bowls of

Dead cuticle milk most stagnant
Until old nail beds dissolve
Into new flowering forms
Like spinning teacup skirts,
Like slippery eyelashes,
Like ladies.

Move men

Like Monroe’s windy thighs,

Like 21st century weaponry
Like Kennedy's nuclear erection,
Like ladies.

Harvest garden guts

For him to grow,
Like seeded fruits,
Like hungry ovaries,
Like ladies.

Stitched neatly

Under every
Neatly stitched dress
Is a sad-story-Sally
Suffocating under
“You’re so hot”
Muggy sex breath;

Loving and fucking,

Fucking and loving.

Black Widow

See,
The spider doesn’t
Fall far from the web,
Like the apple
And the tree,
Or peach,
Tomato,
Person…

Dad’s got the bite.

Brother

With spider web arms
Can’t catch a single fly.

Well, this morning I woke
Eight-legged spine limbs,
Black rose stem arachnid.

Latrodectus spine crawl

Carried me to the bathroom sink,
And I’ve never been so fearful
Of running water and sink drains;
They’re quick to swallow, you know.
The mirror taunts Black Widow chants
Telling me I’m different now
With my red hourglass back tattoo
Counting me down.

The phone rings interruption

And I’m not even sure where my ears are,
And Doctor White-Coat said I had poisons
That I probably wouldn’t have
Had beetles not gotten busy.

Well he gets fucked,

But I’m sure he’s never been fang-fucked,
Because he’s still living and lining up
With all the other busy bustling beetles
Who won’t admire my web.

I’m a real weaver,

And I don’t mean
Charlotte shitting web shows
For Wilbur.

I mean I can weave.

I can’t control
The wanderers wandering
Weathered into my web.

I can make them bleed

And turn them liquid maggot milk,
But they don’t love.

So bolted bound beetle head
Peeking under cotton web-wires
Can’t have a heart for a spider,
But I have plenty stomach
For wriggling captives,
So I say,

“It’s a real fang fuck-fest.”