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Miles Clark |
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WHY I'M NOT A TRAVELING SALESMAN ANYMORE for Chelsea Coleman, 1982-2010 You have one foot in the grave And another in the dumpster. The flea-eggs Inside your Moroccan suitcase Are starting to hatch. Not tipping The fiddler turned out to be A ghastly mistake. The royal bodyguards Raise their scimitars in a single rabid Gesticulation. You drop, spiderlike, Into the populous bazaar. Your toupee Is whipped off, crushed By mechanical camel feet. Your Tweeds are torn away by dark gypsy Fingernails. You slide Into an alley's asshole and strain your ears For accusations. Blood Eventually ebbs from the larger veins on Your scalp skin. Something Vulgar emanates from under the brick On which you squat. But last night - ah! Had not Her accent seemed so expectant, had Not her discourse been quite So engaging when I arranged my various contraptions Atop her magic carpet! WHAT HAPPENED AFTER A FOREIGN SPY POSING AS A CONGRESSIONAL INTERN SLIPPED A VIAL OF LSD INTO THE HIGH-RANKING SENATOR'S MORNING COFFEE I dragged a skeleton out of my closet, Debriefed it, and watched It pitch wet oranges Against a white canvass for a while. The Foremost monkey looked up from his typewriter Scratched his chin, and said to me: Eichkabooboo, eek eek eek Yes, I told him, you've planned that well. The three parrots on pedestals started Screeching slogans at one another Whenever I waved a sign at them, While the raccoon in the corner was busy digging Through the garbage can, in search of something Useful. Eventually he glanced outside, Into the smoggy sunlight, and noticed that the birds And bees had done something obscene; he winked at Me, and I felt an urge to rush for a camera; Suddenly everything was a blur. I forget exactly when you came back home, With your armful of consumer products, but as soon As you saw all the windows thrown open, The lampshades punched in, the floor of the den Strewn with straw and shit And me sprawled on the sofa, in your Soiled silk kimono, a little waft Of white smoke floating up from the tray - All I remember Was that bundle of automobile keys nailing Me in the neck, my eyelids peeling Away from nowhere, an odd lack of pressure Against that rectangular space on my upper leg Where my little black book had always been. |