poem for La Bouche #3 (2009)

Blood of the Corn Kings

‘mod’ optical chart, recently tacked
falls down anyway.

“Open your mouth and say, ‘Aahh’,
corduroy lumphead child,”
a physical(?)
in startling keyhole views.

This waiting room is filling up

with Hopi gods from all Directions
hurting to have their teeth pulled.
The Harvest is weedridden

and their favorite office sofa
has the attention of police.

While in the park zoo
a black goose-feathered tortoise
finally roused to movement

torpidly topples a dwarf
in a Ron Old MacDonald outfit
wanted in two states
for conduct unbecoming.

The outfit, not the dwarf.

On airport tarmac, mingling,
Dr. Skewsbox fakes a farewell inspection,

lining everyone shoulder-to-shoulder
for a last minute ‘strategy meeting’.

“Why, you’re hurt…” he gleams,
taking the chin
of the man with the light blue skin,

(disturbingly tiny, dried-dot scabs at one eye
like stubble blood nubs),

trying to pull away
from the hypocritical oaf.

In the crowd, a seemin’ observer
stands, undercover, to expose
the doctor’s release
as premature…

vital sample in hand,

sunshine sublimely streaming
through the paper popcorn cup.

_______________—grimes  7/87; 5/09

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