Smoking Glue Gun
“I’m having a little get-together at my place, mother fucker.
And then I’m getting married at the Cowboy Church.
Then I’m sitting at the fake, fake typewriter to think
to think they tapped the power cord. Then I’m cutting through it
and I’m waking up.”
Like a smoking glue gun
on a velvet pillow
on a divan imprinted with a wrench.
Like a wine stain on blue paneling
next to your hand on a Clue board.
Like piano wire through a Clue board
on top a Clue board
on top a Clue board,
I can’t even breathe any more.
Let’s break the glass for the man outside.
Or maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t know.
He comes in anyway and breaks the aquarium
over his top hat, and the oaks come prisming out
from their leaves and the windows blow out.
Lemongrass, clouds, bags of oranges, cattle.
Records as rain, how trees smell when you gash them
and the lake burning brilliant below.
I hope, of course, I’m being feminine.
I don my bird mask in the stare of a candle.
The charred drapes feel holy.
Then underneath all the black leaves and brush,
a single, lonely white horse.
Like trash.
Oh like trash.
