(no subject)
Another poem-stranger than usual. Constructive criticism appreciated.
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"They're Italian cookies," she said,
"they make the best kind."
That's when I learned
that the precipice of American life
is in the cultural simplicity
of cookies:
there's always a best kind,
a historically rewritten code
of who's what.
For now, we're it.
The songbird flimflam of our
central heat and deadbolted doors,
of downloadable and recordable everything,
of spicy kung pao remote-controlled
4-disc compact patent leather automatic
sensibilities and, and
notions
of punk rock art show fetish bar
war protest classroom comedy club
commonality, security:
it's all a mutiny
of thin, selfish ploys,
of careful bootsteps
over the ginger slush
of a worldwide tire track.
Our mammoths are burger,
our spears are loaded.
Our eyes are wooly poodle eyes
gone bloodshot,
eyes growling without teeth.
Our words are snowflake viscera
molded and primped over
cotton bones.
Already we're soft,
inconsiderate, and grotesque,
like horseshoe crab legs
twiddling on our back together,
drifting incapably with the tide as we reach
skyward
from the Godless blaze-lit rim of shore,
writhing and hypocritical.
Runtime Error
"They're Italian cookies," she said,
"they make the best kind."
That's when I learned
that the precipice of American life
is in the cultural simplicity
of cookies:
there's always a best kind,
a historically rewritten code
of who's what.
For now, we're it.
The songbird flimflam of our
central heat and deadbolted doors,
of downloadable and recordable everything,
of spicy kung pao remote-controlled
4-disc compact patent leather automatic
sensibilities and, and
notions
of punk rock art show fetish bar
war protest classroom comedy club
commonality, security:
it's all a mutiny
of thin, selfish ploys,
of careful bootsteps
over the ginger slush
of a worldwide tire track.
Our mammoths are burger,
our spears are loaded.
Our eyes are wooly poodle eyes
gone bloodshot,
eyes growling without teeth.
Our words are snowflake viscera
molded and primped over
cotton bones.
Already we're soft,
inconsiderate, and grotesque,
like horseshoe crab legs
twiddling on our back together,
drifting incapably with the tide as we reach
skyward
from the Godless blaze-lit rim of shore,
writhing and hypocritical.