by Jarrad Ackert
Man with a dead snowball eye, left arm and left face made putty by the sun
cigarette-spark his own special flower-bloom
town and city limits: no vacancy: for his tears
man with a dead snowball eye, 40 ton grandmaster of the road
pissing in a bottle.
Now, it’s the end of the world and everyone wants to trade in their
knickknacks, odds-n-ends, devices, their
for something more meaningful. But it’s too late. There’s a urinal on dis-
play in an art museum,
I have a coffee cup, an official one:
on both sides of the handle.
It is colored black as roof-tar. All I need now is a scythe.
I love you because you suffer. If you don’t feel that love, it’s because you work in an
office and don’t realize it-
that comedy with the sad clown interior design.
In the sink dozens of slick whiskers, or chocolate sprinkles for the licking cat
staring at the milk of my new cheek.
I gather them up into a square, box that up and mail it to Van Gogh’s ‘Self Portrait with
The black will blend well with the yellow face,
as crows gliding across the plain.
Curfew only abides to those with a place to go.
For 30 years of life, men stand under artificial lighting. The cafeteria workers dress in
The cat tries to make-out with me at 5:20 am.
None of this makes sense; so it’s no wonder why the reporters have been eating it up
twisted and the public
has gone stir-crazy inspired.
My bedsheet is a blue ocean. I get lost in it.
My armchair is a school of salmon.
Being a merman can get lonely sometimes, but I never looked good in a leather jacket