FORMICA CRICK

by gm

Jeramy Dodds
– for A.L.

 

To cash in the cha-ching
of your winks I turned
to the creek for currency.
It’s hard to swim with a heart
of gold. The creek is breaking up
with us and the paper acres
of winter. You unfurl your water wings.
There is a cancer for everything.
Widowers get down off the hills;
their unpasteurized tears used to lube
the joints of Cossack acrobats.
The air uses our lungs as trampolines.
I went to ask the deafening creek
a thing or two. What do you call
a trapezist who won’t catch you?
Unrequited love is like asking
a mannequin to dress you with all
the loneliness of a glory hole
in Chernobyl. The creek is full of stone
peels. From beyond the beyond,
a twig of starving lightning wants
to make the vanished visible.
The soul is a perfume that stepped
into the wind. How far can a silhouette
get in a mule-kick of lightning?
My soul is blinged by your laughtrack
on its perpetual victory lap. I only
travel in a chicken-bone palanquin.
What do you call a chaperone
who’s always alone? I only brought
a match to see the glints of Glitzerland.
I’m the cataracted acrobat reaching
for twigs like a cutpurse with the worst
palsy. You, an old oak with no lower limbs.
There was a brass band around
your father’s wrist. Listening is the hardest
instrument to play. Fuck the soul
and its love of bad art. Still, the heart
wants what wants the heart.