I'm not the only liar in town

1
The tongue curves several light years away.

A dog standing on its bald spot, its ex-orange juice.
The night forges a club foot—
irreparable and dildodorous on the seesaw.


2
For three years, the mayor survived with syphilis.

The house is empty now—
under the porch, you can see the scrotum swell of sky.


3
A ride with a stranger, a dream in aluminum:
the clouds playing musical trees and there I was, epileptic,
in the A-4 freeway,
with an electric guitar for hair.

Something metallic in the wind buzzing, like déjà vu, tv snow.


4
On Madame Fatima's lap,

nine of hearts: yellow hands grabbing yesterday's news.
Runaway gingerbread men and sacrificial gods.

The crack in the ceiling is a repopulation of the vagina.
Next, the readership star sign.


5
My parents said I started out well—
they had me all planned like a short-order menu.

Now they don't know who I am. How I can live with linoleum.


6
Over the phone, communication fills up
on dirty pictures, sounds of toothless shouting.

Is it possible to survive without the ceremonial body?

For emergencies: a shelf filled with antennae;
also, a branch snap from the lintel.


7
Maternal love sips from a long history of guilt.