The Rectangular Eyes of Goats

I’m so hungry I could stick a bagel up my ass

I like your brass rabbits and your werewolf underwear

There he goes again   

The same old Norway maple rant

I sit here every day in my arbitrary office

And draw lines of questioning

A skink is eating a cricket     

Really chowing down

Like waking up to a jackhammer

I’m running through the valley          

Tripping over shadows

Scuffed my collar on a palm frond

I’m a new convert

I wear a yarmulke to cover my bald spot

Like a French actor

Always skipping down some staircase

I will no longer take cordless phones for granted

The thicker the glass the truer the reflection

Excuse me I’ve got a frog in my mouth

 

Gooseland

When the king called

I was occupied in the posterior, doodling on a tablet with charcoal and spit. I was licking your lips (like a red-bellied woodpecker) and you whispered, The king is on line two.

                   I dropped what I was doing and pulled my pants above my head. I wrapped your ankles in lace and double-knotted my sneakers. I said, Hello, king, how might one beckon? He said, Go Tar Heels,

and the line went mute.