end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn’t it’s the end of the world)

jalopy dreams · end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn't know it's the end of the world)

 个

(heads up! listen to the poem here)

 (for my friend and teacher Wayne Gilbert)

 

perhaps this is a poem

                or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether

                or page three hundred and three of the g.e.

                refrigerator repair manual

                                or too much caffeine

                too much ambition

perhaps i’m walking the block

in high tech shoes of direction and destination

or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet

this might be september

                                and the moon is shaped like a riddle

                too big to smash with a hammer

this might be a fishbowl

                and i’m just another fishy citizen

                working in a fish stick factory

                                i eat and shit and work

                work and shit and eat

                and then pray for god to come and clean the water

this might be the sticky afterbirth

                or the moment of climax, or the wink

                of spanish fly in a young woman’s eye

                                and a new spirit hovering over

a faded blue buick with steamed up windows

                                young spirit waiting to enter

                the motel called mother

this might be the right circumstance

                in a misfit context

this might be a daytime tv talk show

this might be a keystone cops movie

                or maybe both

                                grainy black and white

                                big hat, billy club

                                                rescue of the whispering

whimpering mr and ms damsel

                tongue tied to the railroad tracks

                                of tv guru voodoo

this might be a snow globe

                 and i should feel foolish

                for not believing in fairytales

this might be candy-hopscotch-doo-dah- mountain

                where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry

                where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphin

                                grapevines sing songs of festival wine

                and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle

                                                                                together

this might be a motor-home graveyard

                flat hills of empty shells and grey weather

                                dead center of humdrum

                where hummingbirds forget how to hum

                and drop dead

this might be trick photography

or the rare occurrence of natural magic

                behold the mighty onion

                                a gallery of curtains

                unwarp the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah

no more universe

perhaps there’s another universe next door

                that looks and smells and shakes just like this one

                except no one there sings songs

                                  about onions (let’s go!)

this might be leap year

                and all the leap frogs are leaving this world

                to orbit some other mud puddle

                                bum around in limbo

snuggle up in candy-colored god clusters

                get too heavy with philosophy and fall down

tomorrow it will rain frogs

this may seem crazy

                but this might be someone else’s fever dream

                and i’m sleeping in the wrong head

this might be the day before i die

                and i’m here to cast the first stone

                                to fill my coffin with novocain

                comic books and last minute field goals

perhaps this the end of the world

                                                                as we know it and

                ʆi… ʆfeel… ʆfine

perhaps all of this could be or should

be or once was

                                long ago

                                                                all i know is

                i misspoke, tried to sing a choked

                bit my tongue so hard it made me cry

and i can’t see anything very clear

                perhaps 

                this is a poem

 

 some new poems from my old friend wayne gilbert

poets for poests and stories tellers united writers pantry