Shoot An Arrow In The Sky

Caveat Lector

calling all able-bodied citizens

to punch me in the face

first off

let’s just say that if the fist fits

well

let’s just say

it just might do the job

for once

of rearranging my map

do not jab

crack to it

emit a smile

it’s the weft of the thing that matters

a pattern of skin and muscle and blood too

calling all caged animals

calling all nuns

as befits the occasion

this will seem fitting someday

I’m no rope-a-dope

I ain’t what you’d call fit

I can take a walloping or two

come on and make me mambo

stutter step and

maybe

just maybe

I’ll take a dive

calling all yellow-bellies

calling all cops

let’s get it straight

let’s snap to it

let’s call the whole thing off

Archimedes of Syracuse

don’t put the toilet paper roll back on

not on backwards

don’t put the

toilet paper roll

on backwards

not today

no no no way

let’s all do something the same

let’s get it right

for now

just for today

let the angels sing for us

because the toilet

paper roll is not on backwards

west is the direction

east is the way

we are not scrub brushes

we have eyelashes

we make cookies

don’t go putting that toilet paper roll

no no no

don’t go

no no no

not on backwards

no

let’s get it right

no way it’ll be today

no no no

let that toilet paper hang down

properly

yes

just like that

holy

shit

the day i saved my own life

it started out with feet. not shoes. feet. just feet. that’s all. i was walking up a steep hill, saw the feet lying there on the sidewalk, and noticed a body attached to them too. the body was lying on its stomach. the head was facing straight down, causing the nose to squash against the pavement. i then noticed an empty pair of shoes just above the head. they were set neatly side by side, as if put there on purpose, as if some thought had been put into the matter beforehand. They were just shoes, but they probably belonged to somebody, and that somebody had most likely put them there. For what reason? I hadn’t the foggiest notion. the feet were there. the sun was hot. the feet probably didn’t smell good. the body wasn’t moving. i kept walking up the hill, past the feet, past the body, and then past the shoes. it felt good to be moving. soon i forgot about the feet. they were just feet. nothing to be too concerned with. while waiting for the light to change at the intersection i stuck my hand out to swat down a pigeon that was flying a bit too close to me. i hit it a good one. knocked it down with a chopping blow that sent it flailing, instead of flying, across the street. i watched it struggle in midair, as if trying to dance while trapped inside a running blender set to puree. the pigeon kind of made a last heaving motion with its body, then it went down hard onto the sidewalk. i felt good about what i’d done. i marveled at it. i did a lot of marveling in those days. there were many things worthy of being marveled at. this was just another thing. so i went about marveling, watching that damn pigeon squirm around there, futilely flapping its grimy wings in misery. i was chewing gum at the time. i took it out of my mouth, held it in my hand a moment, and then threw it at the traffic signal. it missed. then the light changed. i crossed the street and forgot about the pigeon.

mary mary

A very large cake arrived at our work today. On the cake it said, “Congratulations Mary! Happy Retirement!” Nobody at our work is named Mary. The cake was good. It had strawberries in it, and a lot of roses drawn on it with red icing. We cut the cake into pieces and ate them out of paper cups with plastic forks. It was good. We all liked Mary’s cake very much.

Absurdist Notions Concerning The Ephemeral and Episodic Nature Of Certain Musical Leitmotifs In The Works Of Ezechay Delano Fortswearabin

Our band was called Levitated Potatoes. We recorded pencils dropping on a table. There were good times and bad times when we were in a band. There are always good and bad times. Our band played parties. People got drunk and threw things at us like chicken wings and bottles. Some people spit on us. We were not that good of a band. Music is a matter of taste. Our band is no longer a band.

fame

the flags fly
at
half mast
for some dead senator
who
just so happened
to be named
Kennedy
there is probably a good reason
that I should care
about this
but
I don’t

the kind of day that people die on

partly cloudy like a crush of cauliflower scabbing the sky

it was a Friday

and hotter than Death Valley in July

a cop was at my door

giving it a good pounding

like some kind of a crazed bongo drummer

so I opened it

the cop was a heavyset woman with eyes like liver spots

she was looking for the old man who lived up on the 4^th floor

he was a painter and a writer of letters

I liked him

he used a typewriter and had an affinity for striped tube socks

it seems the cop was having a hard time locating him

and thought he might be dead up there

she’d rung his bell and knocked on his door

but didn’t want to break it in

as doors are hard things to replace

I told her I hadn’t seen him for a while

but that he was always kind to me

and would sometimes let me in the building

when I was too drunk to find my keys

the cop stared at me blankly

the odor coming off of her was not pleasant

something like hydrogen sulfide with a hint of rat piss

I held my breath

it was quite an awkward moment

then she gave me a scowl like burned meatloaf

and rumbled away

I shut the door

I was alone again

I was happy

the sky continued about its business

I cracked another beer

and contemplated the migrating patterns of birds

but it was too hot for thinking

so I sat there

sweating and staring out the window

drank the beer down

while remembering the kind old man on the 4^th floor

and wondered

if it were too hot of a day to die