Wolf Moon Outrage

Frozen broccoli straight from the
oxygen-tubing guts: I feel like a putrid yogurt man.
The most dangerous chair you can buy
on E-bay will eventually disappoint you
by proving innocuous and even mildly
comfortable. I wish I had bald-eagle wisdom;
to rule my household with a beak
and cut my grass with long black claws.
I was sold on auction; the highest bidder
was a giant squid. I have to now sit and
watch it doodle in the sand and turn
to me with expectant eyes that demand                                        
praise, I am forced to nod and
smile. ‘Very good!’ The closing price had not even
been that high.

Furries on anti-depressants are scratching around
in my flowerbeds. They seem
very down. They don’t seem happy
at all. He who lives in a strange home
will deal with a baffled toilet cleaner
on that day that he who lives in a strange
home needs a toilet cleaner. We all do,
I confide to the foreigner who’d knocked at
my door demanding why it is that
in this country he’s suddenly contracted schizophrenia –
why it is now that he’s come here to this country here
he’s suddenly now schizophrenic. I say: we all
live in strange homes. He looks panicky.
‘I’m just looking for travel
and the Asian experience.’

That’s what they all say.

I realize we’re on the brink of a
financial buttmoon
but with a sit-kick side-fly
the cartoon football hooligan and I
can each enjoy a pleasant holiday.
In this unusual brief history
in which speech is still sold
and is expensive and is taxed and one can
even buy add-ons, you know, to better one’s speech,
the squid’s sand doodlings can for
a change be legible and I can feel proud
of my low closing-price embarrassment
and, when bumping shoulders in shopping
aisles with the unemployed bumper-car racer,
I can knock him back and make him understand
why he’s now without work.

Ah, I can read this dangerous newspaper article:
the explosive letters – the letter ‘t’ especially (this
letter is especially explosive) – exploding in
my face; his compulsive outrage and
newspaper swattings in the frozen
section of the supermarket startling everybody
around us. And then there’s the blobs of
acid-melted broccoli on the floor just next to where
a poltergeist is clanging around in
an empty jam tin. I grow wings and
descend into the bowels of the Pacific toward
a neatly mowed urban lawn in which
the U.S. flag is planted
and I wrap myself in its cloth.