after Rosebud Ben-Oni
The angel took up two seats on the train. The tuna crossed her fingers. The dart threw a billiard ball at itself. The peacock thought he was a rooster. ‘Good god,’ said the triceratops, sunbathing in the comet light.
WEST OF VIPERS
Actually, the city of Vipers has a mild population. Yes, some vipers. But there is also a postal worker who skids like a ball. Pelicans who take your trash. This town has a certain ‘I don’t know what.’ Every night, a sarcophagus is wheeled in from the cold. You could be happy in charming Vipers. In the amphitheater, we keep a champion egg. To the west, nothing else is possible.
We take up paddles.
Climb into the mouth.
Sit on the tongue.
Immediately, the head is complaining about water in its ears.
The head is saying its lips are chapped.
We try to ignore it.
We don’t know who it once was.
We want to keep it that way.
We want to make it through the rapids.
At the end, pay for a picture.
When we hit the whitewater, the qualms just become worse.
God, we don’t look it in the eye.
God, we want to unload.