Fun House
Where memory divides like the first language, like an all-night barbeque,
And Idaho is known for bluegrass, New York corn.
My mother speaks in violets, my brother in turquoise;
I am rod-shaped, known for my flamingo.
Where continence and semblance have a child;
Where longevity remarks to capacity, “Can this be a kazoo’s worst nightmare?”;
Where disco discographies read like funeral directories;
Purple stacks of fire fill our heart with magma
And red is known for confusion, the sea our oboe;
The cuckoo clock sucks inward and we scream out each hour an ocean;
The flock song rinses the cutty out of our clothing;
Where all I want to do is touch rocks;
Plumbed households hover above Atlantic or Pacific;
The pink of our inner cheek were a feeling.
Where I touch you is ruby
And cats are named after other animals: Rhinoceros, Giraffe, humans;
Tin Horns underbelly the idea of jazz;
Each neck is a leg, my face another foot;
Where a love-poem can be written without verbs
So are is a shade of pink, say salmon;
Where destiny is determined by pin-cushion impressions, say xenophobic astrology;
The mouth of the Delaware was traversed by Lincoln;
Balloons are filled with desire, float because we ripple.
Where we use words like berserk and mongoloid to describe daffodils
And I love you means loan me twenty bucks;
Where I sell you this idea that we can begin somewhere in other lives and finally end in
music.
