To What? (poem)

Do we own your pleasure, this shell-strewn tarmac now housing hammocks and humming, flinging asynchronous banalities to the

Saints' stepsisters gaping

refugee pleasure tents emit pleas without barrier

reaching past the gates and drowned out by jam bands

in afternoon traffic

the light reaching ever further back

into seeing, all heads manic with face-fitting mirrors hung from this limb and that

Is the story we'll be reading aloud today

this class packed tight with cereal-fed flesh

reading dial-up disappointment in their soggy-stick tea leaves

pastel adventures tucked away where they'll never see

the fantastic orgy we've enraged our senses and left 

you the privilege of bidding on marked-up scraps of the feast

wondering aloud which ghost got which sheet

From any of the yawning annihilation

Glade holiday scents and the evening's meal bubbling in stock pots posted as warning

to ward off would-be gazers

meet me by the cold cuts

I'm the one with the knife

I am but one of the simple

beetles eating holes in butcher's block

sucking amply, that engorged turtleneck

oh, you will be tempted

with second-line actors

filming flame retards

see, we're getting to the point

it's you that needs the hook

for the fish daddy already caught


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