You’ve Caught A Wild Simone de Beauvoir
Tallying productivity as one does a countdown
to denied parole, it’s clear as the vision
these imported root pills inspire
a gallop from the bridges
of final smiles and unenvied taxes. Tonight’s the night
of horror wherein friends cackle.
A Confederacy of brunch
going sorcerers do compel your dad
to give me that goddamn grant I want
so that I may sit on my ass. It’s clear
grand design designed this for nothing but tiger meats
and of course pornography.
I’d be remiss
if I didn’t levitate while everyone was looking
for the death the EMT’s trying to prevent. Once, one
was pissed, he tried to save my life after the crash,
said he wished
he was inside the strip club,
the local puritanical corral. Pulsing with filigree,
the construct’s too lame, way too gone
to be feeling this warmth tonight, to be
one way or another at all.
Inside this poem
Drew Barrymore plays Adam Sandler who plays Greta Gerwig
doing an imitation of Al Franken inside Jason X
as David Attenborough yodels
to the theme of your disintegration. Nobody’s responsible,
he screams from his bunker
below the market, above the fair market
price of our halos.
Hello! Welcome to 10
Cloverfield Lane. We’ve laid out rugs
stolen from wars but since this is the Midwest
of our brain zones, Sandra Bernhardt says lookout!
your peoples’ plane’s about to hit
my constituency’s planes and we’re all about to burn
inside of this meeting wherein my wife’s tolerance
bakes a jelly cake.
You say wadsthat
these grits are filled with foil which is to say a horse
which is to say the last time
is the last time you got inside that opal mind,
dug around, got up in them guts
like a plush toy. We invite the presidential portraiture
inside our mutual nightgown.
We play around with his innards.
We too say hello, goodnight, would you like
some canned meat for the road? Maybe some prosody
to help stave off the shakes, to help
in case of apparent need
break inherent glass.
Then sing a tune
for the carp lost on your porch,
writhing as carp writhes. Meowtwo failed to grab
a new lube on the way home. It was a rough night
and nobody asks where she’s been
except for the math
doing courtesies inside our rhythm gut.
This is the ecology we’ve failed to coddle.
Joseph Goosey is the author of the chapbookSTUPID ACHE (Greybook Press, 2014.) He lives in North Carolina.