a laundry list of things to slay

Don’t bother with the jabberwock, my son.

Just slay the spam. Be home in time for the nuclear

show.

 

Personally I now officially despise: music.

intelligent

people, flowers

picked but still breathing

colors, veins which still sing blood, rivers

of males with lacrosse weaponry jingling off their

spines, all things possessed of spinal columns, all columnists

with opinions.

righties, lefties, statements

of war on words, bloodbaths

where only the living heads of kings buoy above the bubbles

drowned plastic soldiers and mermaids dead

reasonless draining

I hate ice cream and its entourage of homophones

dog owners (just leave the dog alone with me

to kiss my nose, because owning

is a liability and because I want it).

I hate music, I hate music, I. hate. music.

 

in poems, from motorcycles, swans copulating, professors mating

with their precious papers. I hate

the idea of music, the light behind the eyelids of the dark

the smell of Moroccan spice and silken sweeps dyed psychedelic

over a vein of concrete rain,

the blinding beat of emotion

Let the ocean swallow it all

in silence. I even hate

the word hate, how it intersplices pitches

into a circle of fifths, blocking measure from measure

violating empty air with this regime of tyrant music.

 

On the way home today I saved a tender earthworm

from the mandibles of dormant tires in a parking lot.

Then I squelched on a worm of lipstick-pink and lemon-yellow

and ground its sugary molecules into the sidewalk.

Over it stepped shoes. Yesterday

a girl brought in two flowers, one for me.

I kept it on my staffs of Bach’s prelude, studying how

the burnt brown

edges advanced like a world war

slow but sure towards the heart of sunset-cloud

of pink. It is now dead.

 

Don’t ask for me

whether in peace or assassination

I am not there at the moment

there is no estimation of return. I’ve gone

to slay the sun deep in the woods

inside my pitless heart.

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2 thoughts on “a laundry list of things to slay

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