Having an Average Weekend
Alfalfa up the nose? Absolutely.
Nothing else can explain that scent
and the cattle groupies. The sky,
a leaky, bloody, overeasy egg, drips
over the city. That seems natural.
The highway breathes loudly, like
it’s being rammed against a janitor’s
closet wall. Downtown, no one
picks up after pet rocks. Art gallery
patrons discuss portraits with glued
on beavers: the dam building ones
and the kind that sometimes rent out
space in pants. But is it art? But
is it postmodern fluff? All the poets
gather at the monument for losing wars
and recite Tate. That seems natural.
Apples are served, but there’s no nutrition
in something you plug in. Moose
give a shit about nutrition. They eat
pizza in the alleys and don’t object
to anchovies as long as there’re papers
showing low amounts of mercury. That
seems natural. Nightlife requires a
familiarity with Russian literature.
“Russian literature” means dry humping.
Christmas lights are left on all night –
come tornado, come pestilence. That
seems natural. Cellphones edge out birds
and no one asks how. Their songs are
easier to sing; everyone agrees on that.
Author Discusses Poems