Pacing on one foot at a time, like he
was in the chamber that helps you stop smoking in Cats Eye.
Like electrically charged atoms, dancing to Mozart.
Like a busted up whore, tripping on too many Benzes.
Like a kite, free from its master.
Like a master, free from his shackles.
Like the token black guy, in Blazing Saddles.
“Got chore stories here-e-e-e-e-e-e!
Step right up!
Poem for a dollar on the theme of your choosing!
Page a blank prose for 5! 3 for 10 people!
Come one! Come all!”
He has one for the bored housewife.
It starts out boring like a Harlequin.
And jumps by page 5.
(She was a multiple personality of a soap star.
This is why her lines had been so bad, so far.)
He has one for the boy that lived down the lane.
About a mission to drive all the drivers of the world, insane.
(The final page is on fire, smells of burning rubber
and sounds like the dancing of brick walls breaking out from under a fender)
“How about one about a detective whose cases all blend into one perp,
Turns out all along he’s been hunting God!”
He twists and turns on his feet all day.
At night he looks out his small, underwater window
Looks like Nicola Tesla, head arched back.
Looks like a more peaceful Stanley Kowalski.
Like a playing card.
Like a saint.