Circulatory System

On the bus to work, my cut finger split its scab--
over a water-damaged page of Randal Jarrell, it capped
the last borrower's marginalia with unspotted ladybugs.
Some repurposed notebook paper held the flow of blood,
which showed through the page like a developing photograph.

At Chinatown, an old woman de-boarding
handed me a piece of paper: a single band-aid,
which she must have removed from its box stops earlier
(I never noticed her get on)
and was too nervous to hand over in transit,

observing me modestly hide that my contents were
leaking dun marks on the balding bus cushions.
I imagine her spinning the plastic-wrapped strip
around bony, purple-veined knuckles, perhaps hoping
that I would turn and smile and ask for help directly.

Now the bandage is imprecisely taped around my finger,
plastic wrapping stripped and trashed,
library book returned, work done, bus re-caught,
notebook paper in my pocket, ladybug domes smashed,
finger scabbed, driver retired, woman forgot.

Superlative Life

I want foam pits and moon bounces
and enough bushels of bananas to drown in.
I want to get married in white overalls then go
paintballing: courtship is a sport!

Every gathering should have
a coloring station.
Cotton candy venders and hair stylists
should join forces.

Gravity, my long-standing foe,
you’re ruining my bowling score.
Bowling should always have bumpers.
Bumper cars should always have bowling.

Has Shakespeare ever considered a toupee?
Has bigfoot ever considered donating to Locks for Love?
2Pac, Elvis, and Amelia Earheart are hiding out in Bora Bora.
I assume they have hundreds of secret handshakes.

One of these days I’m gonna start
a Bathrobe Friday revolution.
Vending machines will be replaced by piñatas
and road rage will be a thing of the past.

Every hat will have some Wizard of Oz
character knit to it, so we all look
like we’re slowly, happily
being devoured. Oh my!

Come,
bacon sister,
we have things to do,
people to pie in the face.

Shaquille O'Neal

is being swarmed by African children

who are jumping up and down

because he’s holding over his head

a stack of boxes

of AIDS medication.

In a laboratory at MIT, a few engineers

are about to solve our oil crisis,

right when Shaquille O’Neal enters,

stomps out all their hydroelectromagnawhatses,

and throws their transmiterographers

out the window.

Shaquille O’Neal, on a rampage through the streets

where he pees on homeless people,

forces our pets to give him fellatio,

and shakes the hands of Congressmen.

Shaquille O’Neal, travelling

from country to country, dropping bombs

on innocent civilian suspected terrorists

and single-assedly causing catastrophic climate change

with his farts.

The world watches in horror

as Shaquille O’Neal continues his campaign

of dastardly destruction.

No one can stop him.

No one can stop

Big Shamrock,

the Big Aristotle,

Diesel,

the Monster of the Midway,

the Big Shaqtus,

the Big Cordially,

Superman,

Shaq Daddy.

Call him what you want,

but Shaquille O’Neal cannot be stopped.

The reign of terror is here.

This is how the world ends:

flumes of smoke

and screams of horror

siren from the horizon

as Shaquille O’Neal confidently

slams it home.

!!!