by Oliver Kangamangus
Has succumbed another age ugly,
he by course in recovery yelp yelp.
Those loose greasy scissors
Grandmother used to cut my hair.
Later use the same pair to dismantle a chicken,
or snip tips from green beans.
Averse to knives,
she’d had many terrible dreams.
Some in fact kept her awake.
Tha wicked one her perpetual houseguest,
and he snored.
He snored louder than the treebranch.
Louder than Washington D.C.
He flew planes on the dim.
Planes with swastikas and bayonets.
He was a real houseguest.
Pay me a buck for Saturday morning scrambled eggs.
But my infinitesimal selfhood caused trouble.
Money on the sun the blue exterior
oh wild Camaro next door,
drips sling aluminum like
we were so quiet then,
break quiet those papery lies of
floundering joy.
My heart, ohmygod, my heart.
I am too snarl for rawgut
I am too bray for limbo
I am too roost for repair.
By God!
daylight
treebranch feigns sleep.
Nestled pretty bayonet you aren’t inside yet.
Juniper cozy and noon among the rocks,
peculiar last light between the grassblades.
