The scrapyard poem
The dunkindonuts buzzthrough unisex
Door behind which you find
An eagle’s feather on the side of
The faucet in which a bear’s head
Has been painted, white and black.
Read slowly, the poem where alien doesn’t mean death but ludi-
Beginning, where your daughter explains just so
Her brother won’t hear there isn’t
A santa but santa is God’s brother
To our heart. The poem lingers
On shhhh-sh-sh-shh. Hi-hat, on the thiffft
When you rip off a piece of DuckTape, This is the
Poem where you such a badass,
You say Fuck instead of Atwood’s Fug
You can smoke so carelessly you drool mid-
Smoke and spit down into the weeds
In the garden plot. You can read it on the radio,
Or in your head you
Can bicker yourself in five-seven-five
You were wrong again
You are so inaccurate
You know I’m dead on.
There’s no pelican, no columbine, no wise-sad
melancholic accuracy, no graffiti on the moon.
You can rhyme if you want
Wear black, skullcap, be gaunt
As a piece of paper, type everything, skip the edit,
Ignore the font.
You can read it to your man: read him this:
You’re worth waiting for in solitary, I invent you while I have
nothing but to find you 10 years later
The smell of gasoline pumps got nothin on you, baby,
You remind me of a thousand and one nights,
The story Sheherazade forgot
When you get me I
Get a part of me I never left a tip.