I cut the grapefruit sun in half.
Half a sun is the perfect sidekick for a cup of antifreeze.
While I read the braille of your knobby knees,
a verdurous giggle palimpsests the echo of a dying howl,
and the mattress of the savor of brook trout
reclines on the boxspring of the fragrance of rainblossoms.
Your bandaided knee feels the way rain smelled
as it fell on Wounded Knee Creek, prompting Tu Fu
to don the didkdik's slicker.
Or maybe it was the dukduk's, I don't remember.
Herr Doktor Richard Dick was busy grafting
Saint Denis's head to a beer, I believe.
I was mesmerized by the zooness of everything
as I at-one-mently drifted oddityward
and the bodysurfers of cometlight disimpaled themselves
from witchcaps in order to ascend to the bottom
of a full-length sidewalk puddle.
Cephalophores blazin cheebah cheebah back at da crib,
to thee my soul is flown; the sheveled cadenza
of rectitude sleeps in my porkpie hat,
coiled like an obelisk. Decked out as a mollusk
I jade-stalk around the madrone forest
where Droopy Drawers will brood on his fate
until his aura taupens--opens
only to a doppelgänger so unique
he's more like me than I am myself.
Ut pictura poesis, as my Rice Krispies used to say--
especially when the poem depicts a ceiling-stain
galumphing like an eerie silhouette,
delivering a carafe of antifreeze
to a fire-engine stranded in the Sahara.
Shirley McClaine as Irma la Douce on rue Saint-Denis
