Pretty Lard

O mighty

bacon bit, heart-

shaped, as I

feared. I am in

service. I will

elaborate only

if you buy me

soap. Pretty

everyone,

bystanders

of loving

kindness: drool

me not. If I

masturbated

in the car wash,

it would be for

one lard, and

one lard only—

a mass intact,

removed from

the studio audience,

a novel passenger.

I’m not

embarrassed, just

tidy. This time,

standing in line

has a laugh track.

Same joke about

the heart and

a tampon.

Everything is live

television, especially

the dogs. It is so

pretty when you’ve

laughed and exited,

when you hold the lard

up to the sun that

comes back. It’s so

pretty in the dog’s

mouth. So pretty,

so captured, in

your mouth, just

rolling, one lard

only, and the dog

is licking your

fingers, your face,

and it was so funny

to stand in line

and hear it again

as the audience

believed it like

a bark, like a sudden

and simultaneous

sound at the back

of our throats.

Compliments, really,

to the chef.

Rotten Landing

Fable me this:

the rock is

in the sky,

comfortable

in the wishing

hour when I

open my

curtains and

aspire to be

half-full,

alive during

the moon landing.

Surely the moon

needs a moon?

Like a honey.

“Good God!”

How I would

have fed a fish.

How I would

have changed

the pillow cases.

Awake and not

yet pointing it out.

Then, a flag and

a dust mote.

We don’t sit

down for the

myth anymore.

I will be born,

surely I would

have been

born, orbiting my

repetition.

It’s too late

for memory,

although I, too,

thought the night

was flat,

beyond even

young touch.

Fable it rotten,

on camera, where

we cannot live, and

bring it down, like

a story I felt

later when I was

old enough to

consider my

career, where

I would land, and

if I should kneel.