Poetry Chicken #2

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allegro musics

I’ll stack up melodies for you,
build a twisting gold chain of song

coiling nimble on your collarbone,
though nothing like the cuffs that manacle

our middle fingers together. Mix
CDs trailing into pre-time, stacking

like creation myths collapsing
into each other, cassettes like

decks of playing cards like
meat cleaver throwing knives like

wood shingles lunged by a tornado
that’s the embodiment of every embarrassing moment

in a rail shooter. Fixed perspective
doesn’t give hold on this, doesn’t

codify a rock grip, but I’ll dino
up your face until my quads diffuse

black acid, till my clavicles be
the conch shells in the Javanese

mermaid gamelan of your otitis media.
Heartworm in the earbulb: shrill silence,

trombone fanfare, egg shaker. Then when
the CD’s rice-based metronome goes black,

I’ll tell you with Skinner crooning back in
the mix, just what it’s like after all this time

to sing sweetly to another man.

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