Perfect Mon

sometimes we are made to suffer
our legs are chrome walrus

sometimes we are made to dance
inside the narrow space of all the ignorance

sometimes, there is a courage

the long-haired apollo wood-chuck
is taking little chickens
in a cup

oh the little book of feathers
its extrnal organs have snagged
on someone's snaggled

clopf

we move among the lathes
in the slow-motion entangling
of throat wattles
on old french movies
of drool

sometimes
this cavalier malfunction
assumes a springsome saltcellar's
golden angular

Cellini (bag head)

The herm post
grows its own green beard

[werewolf tricycle hidden inside a twinkie]

stapling on medals
to a hearse

the poem is talking to a thin child
in a room full of old fat
bastards

the poem is a thin child
in a world of old fat bastards