I will wait for the sun to relax
And the sky to stitch a shroud,
A fig leaf for this cock-eyed Universe.
I will trade all my euthanasias for
All your enthusiasms and pocket the
Difference depending on the direction
Of prevailing winds the market price
Of undelivered promises and the tensile
Strength of Rough Rider condoms.
I will park my hemi-headed Wurlitzer on the
Scrapheap of history a leaking pensioner
Without portfolio rusting on blocks in the
Backyard of Cadillac conformity
The proximate cause of pornography
But also of art.
I will tattoo the tree of life on the Divine
Johnson and stake my claim before God
Spanks more of Darwin’s monkeys and scatters
Seed across this bum fucked galaxy and not
Blame it on the Bossa Nova or
Frederick’s of Hollywood.
I will be a regular at the Bar of Justice buying
Drinks for all the newbies cyanic Kool Aid
Spiked with K-Y to lube the asshole of
Puckered time and diaper the souls of
Eight billion lucky lottery winners
All running down Gaia’s left leg.
I will expire on time and without complaint
Acknowledging that even the Good Lord has a
Shelf life and when the end comes I promise to
Kick back and enjoy the flames while I say a
Novena for Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow,
The Animal most sacred, most blessed, most delicious
In all this demented bone-in rib-eye of a world.
D.G. Geis lives in Houston, Texas. He has a B.A. in English Literature from the University of Houston and an M.A. in philosophy from California State University. He is a recovering philosopher who ditched his doctoral studies halfway through his thesis when he developed a severe allergy to the philosopher he was blathering about. Instead, he tried poetry. Consequently, he no longer worries about figuring things out. He is married to a redhead and his favorite activity is breathing. Most recently he has published in Fjords, Memory House, Sugar House, Cheat River, and Permafrost.
—Art by So-Ghislaine