Prodigal sons & daughters

At six forty five in the after-midnight hours of the day night, when the daylight is about to start invading the late night, tired eyes begin to able to see through their eyelids. It gives everything a sort of bloodish red tint like putting a flashlight against your cheek. Garbage trucks are hurrying around like they have been all night, the only difference is that for a few hours it’s quiet enough, whatever that means here, to hear them here. Here are the heroes of the nocturnal mess, which must be swept away each night otherwise we’ll all sink in a great splash between the Hudson and East rivers. Manhattan’s garbage is soon a problem for Queens or New Jersey. Even North Carolina is receiving some share of New York’s waste, delivered on barges each morning. But Manhattan is flattered by this. Like a celebrity, Manhattan is outraged on the outside that some low life like North Carolina is going through her garbage, but deep on the inside, down where it counts, Manhattan is blushing. How honoring, a show of true fame. Soon, Manhattan will be leaving little secrets, not big career-wrecking secrets, but innocent juicy little secrets in her garbage just so the North Carolinas will find them and score up a little black and white for herself in the newsprints. Look at what the neighbors are throwing out on the curb and you’ll understand. No other city in the world goes through so many mattresses. Manhattan needs to give North Carolina her mattresses. The mattress is where all the sexy page six innocent secrets occur. If only those springs could talk, and they sometimes do. Stained with piss, blood or fun, these mattresses are loaded onto the battleships that march like an army to and from the sandy shores of Carolina. At this moment, there is a mattress, many mattresses, somewhere along the journey to the Near South of the Union. If mattresses floated, and they absolutely do not, then the city of New York would float them down stream like the loggers of Lake Superior send around the new timber. If mattresses could float and if pigs could fly and if pigs could fly on magic mattresses, then maybe pigs would be a new kind of kosher. Rabbis would debate how they sleep in their own filth but they fly on used mattresses. When in doubt, it’s magic or more recently religion or more more recently something too scientific to understand. If we cared about planet earth we wouldn’t keep our garbage here. We’d shoot it into space and watch it float away toward Neptune or Orion’s Belt like logs down the river. For now though, how much garbage is not garbage quite yet? How many new mattresses are shipped onto the island of Manhattan each day? But, Manhattan has garbage trucks, and the trucks go to garbage barges, and those have North Carolina, and North Carolina has itself, and the cheese stands alone.

Bonnets & Dove Gnomes

I would like to be your savior.
I’d like to be on my best behavior,
if only to please you.
cause you knows I needs you.
I’m available in English with trash talk subtitles.
I’m a new edition of all your fantasy love idols.
I’m the calculator game to your boring math class.
I’m the pretty face that blocks out images of an exposed ass crack.
If I could be one thing, I’d be your lightning rod. I’d take all the heat from the storms around you and make you just that much taller than the other buildings. We’d look fabulous together during an electrical storm. The newspaper would have us on the front page the morning after and it would look like that final fight scene in Star Wars three, well, Star Wars Episode Six but the original third one of the good ones.
I want to be your secret move in Rock Paper Scissors. When the other kid throws down dynamite I want you to call my name and I will appear out of nowhere and cover his dynamite with napalm letters laced with anthrax.
When I get across the chessboard, I don’t want to trade up to be a queen, I just want to stop playing chess and play different games.
We’ll make our own board out of body parts and furniture.
How can you be so oddly smart, and I immature?
The rhyming is redunkulous.
I want to be inside you like homunculus.
I’d settle for a small cameo performance in the pilot episode that will only be seen behind closed studio doors or if your life every makes it out on DVD.
If you were the mail, I’d want to be the mailman because I would lift you off the ground and take you anywhere. I’d always send you express mail with a gazillion dollar insurance, delivery confirmation and Internet tracking, even if some other guy stamped you as just first class.
If it were up to me, I would change the grammar so You when referring to You would always be capital. And anytime someone said I love you they would have to sign an agreement acknowledging that we were the first to do it best.
If you were a collection of sonnets and love poems, I’d like to be your coauthor and illustrator.
If E Coli meant endearment coliform and the best place to spread it was at restaurants I’d be the illest waitor.
I’m the snake to your rattle,
I’m the Colonel William Tate to your Last Invasion of Britain battle.
If you were a figment of my imagination, then I would like to be the figs on the tree of your imagination. I just got tested for worms and the results are negative.
This was the long version of saying,
I think we’re in the clear.
But next time let's be more careful.
And I still mean everything before and after I say I love you.