library:poems

Stars are denser than desire, I guess. Stars burn longer than sticks in flame. Crack the Atomic Sun Piñata, as tassels of paper hair curls trail in exhausted ribbon stripes. Witness this two year old little girl who cannot muster the strength to bust the face, even when assisted by a full grown adult. Just hit the face WHACK This paper is yellow and so are the bachelors teeth, this bachelor, your narrator. And you’re not the bachelor, you’re one of the happy child bearing couples, cameras in hand rowed against the wallpaper. And WHACK A blue orb of garish diamond is plucking out bachelor eyes, a finger ring of bachelor death, fiery blazing radiation mote in eye, broken blue ice bashed in cornea, blinded stick gouging WHACK Is ten years bachelor time really a window into cardboard? Your diamond ring, sir, should be simple yet elegant, you don’t want her to have to hide it in modesty. Ultimately unobtrusive, elusive, somewhat abusive, you shouldn’t have to turn the gem around, until you plunge it WHACK into the eye of the bachelor, the runny eye of the bachelor, the main face of the room dominated by the ATOMIC SUN PINATA, and instant camera flash strobe blinding bachelor; children swarm like solar locusts around the mortal cracking sun. Nursery iconography poorly substitutes itself as a galaxy of cutey cutey fuzzy face creatures, mocking and infantile, commercialized cryptozoological goo goo creatures stalking WHACK the sanity of the bachelor phased out by cartoon stars WHACK Choose a color for your intended lover, platinum white gold, yellow diamond, blue diamonds, you should be spending WHACK four months of your salary in order to WHACK Last year baby put hands in cook cook cake, and bachelor went out with that school teacher over there two times and now she’s covered from head to toe, from head to neck in blue icing, in blue diamond, in diamond ring, in your tender tender man, bachelor want to WHACK dispose of your husband and slip hands in blue jeans, milk your stars and WHACK cake time, sister wears party hat when she takes mop to bring back the balloon on the ceiling, and when she stretches her shirt rides up and the bachelor sees a lollypop flat belly and WHACK She’s ten years younger than you, bachelor fiend, you really want to sandbag all the pretty maids reading this poem and WHACK Mother passes stick from boy to girl, from girl to boy, from this one to that one, and WHACK it’s a stick in your eye, and that’s your face, that’s a stick and that’s your face WHACK Watch where you’re going with the chips honey, I didn’t mean to hit you honey, with the bowl, honey honey, the chips the chips, the dying yellow jaundiced burned out dead star yellow of the spilled and crusty chips, honey yellow like the bachelors teeth turn yellow like the WHACK Stuck, sorry honey, it’s stuck and whoever uses the word honey in a poem is hit by the psycho stick of piñata death, is thrown burning and screaming into the hot surface of the sun, and the face of the piñata plasma, the bachelor’s burnished face, and all humans, and me and you, and her and him and boys and girls and a diamond rings and paper hearts fly into the hydrogen furnace WHACK AHHHHHHH!!!! Candy cascades, edible meteors comet down, and shudder sunder surrender and spill, a blink avalanche of gravitational crashcake - boys and girls and girls and boys are blinded too by the sunshower of toy wrapped taffy, cellophane candy canes, closed multicolor necklace cherries, chocolate balls and radiation poisoning. All lunatics young and old, children of the stick and parents on parade, fill plastic baggies with promises and vows and contracts and good and good and good. Bachelor leaps for the carpet, absconds with one strawberry toffee, unwraps it, pulling wings off the solar fly, entering mouth, chew chew chew, toffee pull teeth, stick on molar. The sun totters a dying rondo, weakly swaying, hanging by a string, rotating in a last busted spin in air. The sun is dead, long live the candy guts of the dying face! Taffy overwhelms the bachelor --- he’s rejuvenated, ten years younger, spry in May, feeling warm living sun tingle on the bare of his bachelor back, he’s fixated, stuck in bachelor holes in busted stars, far from diamonds, and birthdays, and cake, in it; in the atomic piñata sun, the fresh sun, the warm sun, the unbattered, atomic reaction bachelor sun, long before stick and tatter, in love with hydrogen shades, in dense heat ANNIHILATION ATOMIC ANNIHILATION ATOMIC ATOMIC ATOMIC ATOMIC ANNIHILATION ANNIHILATION ANNIHILATION