I Am Registering The Timbre Of A Plastic Bottle Hitting A Wood Floor Midway On My Trajectory Toward Death

for Steve Evans


I've been doing some interesting work with kitty slippers which,
when sewn out of newspapers headlining Iraqi death tolls,
create a cheap parody of our planet
that constitutes a kind of science.
Or, failing that, art.
I’ve also been taking sick-hot Tommy Hilfiger teddy bears,
made in Ameribama of spindly bones,
and shelving them up high, so that they appear to be
staring down like a cat.
I have also put Arcade Fire in a room with Vincent Price's corpse,
threw in the Berlin Zoo’s flash mob climax
and the three keys to God’s secret uterine temperament.
What I got was an alternative universe buddy movie
where Anthony Hopkins smirks at Chris Tucker
while both of them get fat,
and a single note from the throat of Michael McDonald
echoes across the planet
over the course of a Kali Yuga.

Sometimes I get so caught up in these ornate recipes
that I forget the humble loaf of bread prototype
for the Mount Rushmore / Holly Hobbie
“prairie dildo” trope.

Edward Kennedy Ellington, 1899-1974,
once said something similar to,
“Doesn’t ‘Destination: Redneck’
feature a crude parody of Yoda
getting his groove on with Pink?
Too bad he failed malaria training.”
Yeah, too bad.
I could’ve made some awesome kitty slippers
out of that damn creamy bee.