all these home dogs,
these silly winkers.
there is so much more
then finding your way
to the bottom of a quarry.
Like being behind a girl
when her butthole winks at you
and you put your hands up to your head
like moose antlers.
more simplicity in the way
a butthole winks at you
than an eye does, I think.
More love in it.
Like in the bottom of the rain
when all resisters become transistors
and you feel the weight
of your dead grandmother
as you carry her coffin.
My grandmother was a big woman.
always ate my Chinese leftovers,
not much love in when you're hungry
and your dead grandmother has eaten
But surely there is love in V-shaped
migrations of hooded teenagers
and how you wish all of life
was a musical so you could hear them
sing instead of the awry wink.
I still get urges to reinstall from time to time,
the deathly ills in imaginary responses
to the winking butthole,
how full of philosophy this poem is
blew my mind as I wrote it
and my grandmother haunts me still.