I am going to crucify myself on the pine tree
outside my home. I want to shimmy up the trunk
and press my hands through two branches.
With my arms outstretched and my chest pressed
against the trunk, I would appear to be hugging
the tree during the day, and I would seem like
some jutting bark during the night. My blood
would always look like dripping sap against the bark
and pine cones, so my parents wouldn’t notice
I’m bleeding to death and bring me down.
Their penises resemble shiitake mushrooms,
but press their tips into their testicle sacs
and they spring up like flowers, full of seed.
An impatient pavilion awaits its decay.
Eight graves on the lip of the former
community lie under weeds and tree trunks
and their tightly donned shade. In the
night, the wind does not pick up;
the day finds everything in its place
as yesterday. Nothing will change today.
You don’t burn out your eyes
looking at a star in the middle
of the night. But find it on
a line that lies inside
a constellation, and you’re blind.
It took me until last night
to see how long the shadows cast by
the evergreens along the far side of my lawn
take to reach my front steps.
In every storm,
the rain rusts
the classic cars I poured
last month’s rent into.
The cars in a salvage yard
no wider than a lawn,
bound to be scrapped
for sculpture art.
In every storm,
I think about how I will help make art,
art that may one day be placed
in a public park, or in a museum
with a cover charge.
Orange juice laps down Pennsylvania
Avenue, and people touch their lips
to the flood to lap up the pulp.
No one quite knows where
the juice flows from. All that people
know are clues murmured on
gusts of the autumn wind.
With all the townsfolk distracted,
the Pied Piper breaks into homes
and steals away baby photos in a sack.
With no one looking, Fatty Arbuckle
continues his one-man protest
outside the Supreme Court, praying
aloud for an appeal.
He smells citrus in the breeze,
hears the shatter of glass,
and still he stands,
as the townsfolk whisper
next to a river.