Alex Lemon
Holler
We Xeroxed masks & feverishly colored--
scissored all night. Crayon-drunk,
we snicked at the saliva-dense blanket
of dark until dawn broke in a horn of orgasms.
Like waifs, birds freeze-framed against the windows.
The woman upstairs moaned her pipes on and off.
We praised morning's licorice-like rain, jawed
our faces open for smoky air & gnats of dust.
Then came floss, the warming up of hands.
Outside the screech of tires called hungrily.
Crowds lined the pavement like plaque.
We wrenched ourselves into monkey suits,
sprayed perfume until poison licked our cheeks.
Still wet, the skinned deer hung from the radiator
waiting to be folded & stitched into tiny glass
filled pouches we would wear when we clapped & tooted
horns. Everyone at the parade called them tumors.
We nodded solemnly, tossing bad seeds like confetti.
GravityOutside--the leaf, the lightning.
Clocks tickled themselves
desolate when happiness busted
in shooting out the lights. Still,
the timing was terrible & the mimes
got bad reviews. Mostly Cs, few better
than a thumbs up or a cold lick
on an ankle. At open bar, an order
was put in to line the mugs
with sadness, retrieve the last bit
disaster remaining in the joy.
Lovers booed from the bathrooms,
poured stale beer over their heads
& flubbered. Today is for playing
the pillow with elbows, keeping
tucked warm & tight--the jukebox
wheezed over & over & endless.
When what was left of the lights
shuddered on the door knocked & a cowboy
rode in with a telegram from my long
lost twin. In celebration, I tattooed myself
with More Greens For Daddy & prepared
to board a private plane planning to kill
as many clouds as I could. I'd fly
until it ran out of gas or dropped elevation
fast enough to fold my lungs.
Just in case, I packed one pair
of clean underwear & crossed
my heart, hoped to die.
At the photo-op I imagined
the nubby miracles under your shirt,
caught each blistered kiss & stuffed
them into a pink garbage bag I prayed
might make carry me a bit above average.
On the tarmac, the propellers chugged
to life & I whooped, clicked my heels.
Pecking my head for luck, buzzards
tally-hoed away the milk-white sun.
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