The Ruckus

The Ruckus

I home in at your necktie
Where golden ricefields grow
In stripes, they make the painter
Wet himself over moondust
And cakes, The red-yellow
Spectrums and bats that weren’t there —
The step-to,
The lean-on your-shoulder kind of woman.

Whereas the trip to the dentist
One sunny day in April, might conclude a mass-
Infection of the gums, I concur there is
But the taste of your tongue; it makes
Little difference. Little difference, if at all.

I tend to not put much stock in what my stomach says,
Like spouses, they are most absolutely lying
Almost always, and they reek of bile, but they’re there
Proclaiming monopoly over your lips and
Whatever substances you allow in your throat. This is not a toll —
It is merely obligation. And I’m obligated to tremble.

There is a bible in your eyes and the dentist said
He knew nothing about eyes, but he knew about teeth and said
There were demons there, and he must take a few extra levels
To raise some skill points for Exorcism. I say leave it
And always go fore more defense. Dodge, dodge, dodge
Until you run out of dodge, and hopefully, she runs out of teeth.

But I am a daughter of the farm and the wind; I care not for skin
Or cured leather, and roller coasters confuse me. How much more your
Hypnotizing so-and-so and okay you’re right, you’re right, you know.
I merely crafted colors out of which is in my grasp,
But in all my years I have not tried building houses out of bones.

— A. P.


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