junior bosch entrée

joe stonecrab
meets the martian pineapple
is the asterix a star
or an anus from which emerges
the martian pineapple

dandelions are like rafts
in the soup
the heavy rods and cylinders
radiate indigenous folktales
constructed of purple metal
covered in yellow hooks
upon which retired people perch
fondling the fruit
as if it were 1888

joe stonecrab closed the sweatshop
from guilt and to concentrate
on his collection of flowers
which grew in a lively pasture
in a vast expanse
of red brick soil

the social life of the community
revolved around the hotels
and parks
people dressed as chess pieces
would meet daily
at the deconstructed delicatessens
which had been distributed among
the line frame beaches
performed by the yellow stamens
and black strings
in which the bees moved
magically ordaining their
heavy dandelion crowns
polished in the red light
of the dark room

martian pineapples
open up on the patio
to reveal their rows of cameras
in which gleason and jerry
destroyed their satin bred jordans
mimicking the local songs
about the great bondage
which gathers in little cans

joe stonecrab played chess
in the clouds
which were senior citizens
and the stories they told
had found a body on the beach
which they moved to the park
to live inside the tattooed van
which had become the center
of community life

art brut is a candle
which is also a beautiful apartment
where all are welcome
in the whirringwheels of the sun
which is usually there doing maintenance
on its chain driven wagon
the "noisemaker"

enjoying its future
and blowing its paper horn
neon glass portraits
can be made of different people
in order to be completely serious
in the presence of the hot chrome microphone
whose radiant aura
bounces strangely off the ornate surfaces
of the storage warehouse
which is recommended heartily
by the survivors
of the ancient sea
of yellow leather chairs
lost in the bamboo
of laughter

the right to enter or join
a particular sphere
loves all color
counterbalanced
by the appetizers
the cables that led from the gloves
to plugs on the desk

the romulus corporation
which built the box
and inside the box
there was nothing to do

the silence of telephus
lives in a nice neighborhood
making signs to those who ask questions
presumably too intent on eating
to converse

through bowed horns
the trees seem lost
in contemplation
of the velvet-ribbed lamps
constructed of thyrsi
and rudders




photograph by andy sweet