indecent poetry

short poem

Newspaper bean, grunge sugar on my
mind... white guard rail, but fuscia
table, no idea how this was allowed.
Scary thoughts of nylon rope and
cinnamon bells fill my crevasse,
crease if you will... it makes the
fold look neater if you do it twice.
Rip, torn?  I watch the 8 o'clock
news and wonder why it's not 11;
that's tea time says my son.
For who?  A banana cannot 
contain my rage, so I peel a 
grape, and throw away the 
meaty flesh inside.  Who wants
it?  Certainly not the dog, but
he looks at me anyway as 
my wife locks up our gun
closet.  A closet without
shoes or used underwear; hardly
a closet at all.  The dog stands 
up and asks to be excused,
and I say, sure.  Wait, maybe
not the dog but our sun.  Then again,
who was telling me about tea
time?  Oh well, I pick up the
remote and turn my microwave on.
It shows me pictures of all fantastics; 
foods it can prepare.  My wife goes
over and turns the volume up, not
a microwave but a television after
all.  Strange, I don't remember
placing that there.  Then again, where
are my socks?  A lovely blue wool,
the poor sheep.  Not the sheep,
but shepard shorn, I say, or
maybe not.  No, I don't think so...
I should, however.  Think, no, say
that to somebody.  Wife, I say, 
come over here and listen.  Strangely
enough now she is a goat rack,
but smiles none the less.  I 
scratch my knee and fall asleep
one last time.