with the eight bedroom
fallen from Rodeo
and buzz, Italy.
I learned where
to put my shoes:
not on the carpet.
Frank the investor’s
pitted-plum musical taste
tepid and bland,
with the savorless horns
and that motivational,
worldly groping . . .
Frank dances like
a shocked sea bass.
Can of micro-import
welded around my head.
“Scotch? Aged fifteen
years, man. Flip on
the TV. It’s plasma.
That First Job
“Watch out for Taylor—He
loves to fire people.” I heard.
Nine months in yellow grease and
a thin, burnt, deteriorating uniform.
“You’re sacked. Pack up.” he said,
but if he was overjoyed, finch above
minatory cloud breaks in his great
season of growth, the wealth of signs
Souvenir in Majesty
Kept in so much as an underwear groin,
kids most so watching his body
kept to false tree-twists mechanically shaped.
There was plurality of guest; each brought more.
How the Hamadryas baboon from his
African savanna was gridded
and canvas-roofed lent his cage
the primate mad-paces, churching for the meal,
chopping hands on the branch.
He shit from the treeshape,
smashed his face with his forearm,
the hands on the branch, manic,
feet from the swings to the floor, wildly
hopping to the cage-wall constant,
his looking-out stuck in a stillness:
The peculiarity of human eyes
Copyright 2008, Ray Succre
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