ah, it must be five-o-clock on a friday in colorado (i can smell the funk in the air)
my poem “new year’s meh” was just published in “Edge of Humanity Magazine” you can check it out here
i’ve been following Edge of Humanity for about a year now, and always enjoy the read. lot’s of good articles, poems and art. don’t forget to support e-zines like this, they publish poets like you and me =)
polyester
such a pretty word
when draped across the cellar door
or swept across the marble floor
or wadded up in a porn store
dumpster
say it with me now
polyester
i once dated identical twin sisters
poly
and ester
they clashed and they schemed
they split straight down the seam
nothing loved me quite like jealous sisters
gave me thrills, gave me blisters
they lived in my dresser drawer
which rhymes with cellar door
so beautiful
from the polyester mountains of puru
to polyester mines of malaysia
the motherload of our supply-side
glows like green naugahyde
tastes like formaldehyde
chafes more than rawhide
smells like something plastic died
polyester
the hidden treasure
in every pair of walmart socks
that’s a haiku
think of all the pretty things we say every pedestrian day
“pleased to meet you” or “hold the elevator”
or “apocalyptic table candles” or “pancreatic cancer”
or “seasick stallions” or “wandering cartwheels”
or “siddhartha never sat in traffic, only under mango trees” or
“hey, we’re out of toiletpaper”
so beautiful
polyester
what word could taste sweeter pressed between the lips?
not a kiss, not gossamer, not grandmother’s peach cobbler
not cashmere, not lyocell, not fleece
(pol-yyy-eessssssssssss-ter)
what could be smoother? not vanilla, not sarsaparilla
not satin, not lace
certainly not velveeta
what could wrap and warm our broken souls any tighter
than a brand new j crew christmas sweater?
sing it with me now – polyester!
don’t dis on my wardrobe
don’t pull on that thread
you can’t break it, can’t burn it, can’t breathe it
can’t eat, can’t beat it with an ugly stick
can’t lose it, can’t leave it, can’t bleach it
can’t bury it alive cause it comes back all angry and zombie-eyed
can’t wear it out, can’t wear it in, can’t live without it
can’t wash it in hot water
can’t wish it all
away
say it with me now
polyester
tom sawyer in outer space, copyright ziggy zagmyer
four hundred and eighty-three million miles from the sun
jupiter is too far to hitchhike
also
buses don’t go there
so i wear jupiter striped sunglasses
drive a jupiter colored jalopy
swerve wide and reckless down open highways
so raindrops can’t find me
i’ve got expired tags
i’ve got weak brakes and a blown cylinder
i’ve got passengers who need to get to jupiter
immediately
he is radio free universe
she is a bootdagger blonde
he is a falcon hunting peacocks
she is the ace of flames
he wants to be sid
she wants to be nancy
(blackeyed boy down in the basement
pretends the furnace is a spaceship
he’s got snacks and supplies and a perfect place to hide
no atmosphere, no gravity, and no angry fathers
on jupiter’s loving moons, roger that, houston)
she plays violin like a cricket in a stormdrain
he plays mandolin like a weapon of mass destruction
she is a bottle of illegal fruitsugar
he is risking addiction
she throws rocks at god
he catches them when they fall
(on jupiter, jesus is nobody’s sacrificial lamb
just a man, union carpenter
throwing boy-minded smiles at his beautiful bride
his wild-lings wilding on the beach, splash! a purple sunrise
would you tell him it’s all illusion?
would you deny him one uncrucified daydream?)
she is a gang of runaway government horses
he was born and raised in the age of cartoon philosophy
(zen and the art of why did the chicken cross the road)
as we cross the rubicon
we jettison our credit cards and raise our freak flag
now we all ride in a phantom cadillac
misfit pixie kids playing grab-ass in the backseat
the blackeyed boy rides shotgun
i hit cruise control and fiddle with the radio
bobblehead jesus sings along
(run little rabbit run)
in the glovebox: band aids, rolaids, boomerangs
paper airplanes, other random things, and
mona lisa’s missing mood ring
earth gets small in the rearview
we won’t lament that cement armpit
not with ten more miles to go
so raise a glass of aftermath to the devil
pour some out for the tax collector
say a prayer for the prairie dog king
and all his kingdom come
dust to dust and luck to luck
ten thousand heavens open up and we fly in
like summertime miller moths
like
a millionbillion
little
lost
paper
gods
(poof)
gone