Joseph Goosey

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.