MARCH 19, 2017

PK

God damn your soul and want for 
proof’s fair examination.
(For the record, we’ve got our
sheriff’s wand for that.)

The pope shook his wedding cake 
out of the box and showed it off 
to everyone. That while I took a deep-

er breath and plunged into a little speech 
about the monster truck rally where Elvis 
had his latest abduction, taking some
toaster burn out of his toast to be quite sure 
no one would pay no heed; however, 
every hedon was breathless and touched 
and breathless. That’s when the clown rapped 
down from the rafters like a phantom from 
an opera gripping tight, with his white church-
bell gloves, my holster and bowtie, whispering: 
Your leathered performance was so beautiful, 
Doris!–I saw your energy and pitiful courage 
reflected in the deadbolts of our neighbors’ eyes, 
and how they brought back memories for some.

Tooth pain for others. That’s when the song broke 
off in the middle of the long and winding road and 
the clown got out of my van’s back seat, letting go

of his balloons in some Nevadean moonrich spot 
where the spotlight’s always shining up and raining
down. Meanwhile, I was glad to have my mother
holding my hand while I scream cried–one last
small step before this man rolled off for summer camp 
on a school bus that lately matches my canvas shoes.

It felt like rehab all over again; can I say that:
the ping-pong, the equine, the bonbons of fire?
JUST DO IT LOUD AND GRADUATE LIKE A
NIKE SWOOSH! and that’s when my blinders 
were drawn tight, shut, on: honest to Allah, boss!–
all I ever confessed to the clergyman about heaven 
and being the only journeyman to China never to have 
read the New Testament; what I meant to say, Pa,

there’s no need to get all cozy and loud; all we talked 
about quietly revolved on a spinning plate around the 
recurring dream of a carousel, which we’ve both had,
sleeping past life’s alarm while failing first grade’s
algebra test. I woke up in a wheelbarrow beside some
rain water.* All this incessant inversion keeps catching 
up with me. Just this past Wednesday morning, 
I strolled out for evening worship, wearing one sock 
and my best sear-surfing suit. Perhaps, I slipped the otter
off like an offering as the deacon placed his plate of gold 
on my lap and the grace of my father’s sermon drifted 
out of the sinagogue while I swayed off towards 
those darker moments where, with a left hand, I’ve had 
to dribble a gold wet basketball through this storm.

eh