Poetry Chicken #3

Moonlighting as a Skyscraper: $10/hr

Let’s start with the last: blow back breeze, sway
in the bitch wind, squeeze my girders you rotten
tangerine. Let’s drape ourselves like Hitchcock
stars over the parapet, radio rod, ledge,
rooftop-park-bench, cry tears into each other’s mouths,
pre-grease our hands. Let’s emote like Antonioni:
below me only ground, surrounding me only sky.
Let’s start with me screaming, that last guttural
accident clanking out my mouth as the asphalt sucks
me down, your mouth mouthing prayers like pennies
at my face. Or let’s get rid of you, I've already replaced
you with a mustache and a squeegee waxing
my 51^st advancement. Let’s decorate me with tower-cranes
like yellow birds, any yellow birds, doesn't matter,
but mustard yellow fuckers for sure swinging
like beanie flyers in the breeze, get me all fancy
for my little perching man. Let’s imagine you
for a change, but you never look up, never
stop to pat the limestone like an acceptable child.
So let’s imagine you’re an earthquake. Shake me
shake me shake me shake me fucking do something
to make me twist, squirm in my boots, before I become hard
to all this majesty, proudly rending the ceiling
while you sweep it all under the rug again. Let’s pretend this once
that I’m begging you: please, be my wrecking ball.