Nobody’s body does the body things your body does.
Everything there is hemorrhaging oxygen.
It’s messy. It’s obnoxious. It’s a mystery.
I took pictures of the badly dried park all died across from your place but they all suck.
It was just dusk and the sun fried all the trees into burnt strips of bacon.
Dead fish and dust tried to crawl corpse chalk outlines of water into wobbly heat mirrors.
This is supposed to be a blue planet. I like places that only do one item. A muffin store that makes only muffins. A mac and cheese outlet that only makes mac and cheese.
A revolving door outlet store for fecund infections that distribute only festering
oily discharges. An ocean that is only an ocean. These places
they exist therefore
cosmopolitanly. An ocean of vaginal fluid. An ocean of just fluid. An ocean of gelatinous overnight fluids in glasses and couch stains. A stockpile of label-removed Juicy Juice cans. Post-Juicy-Juice survivor communities. An ocean that’s an index of flavored colors. Mystery fluid is blue.
Time is sugar in the county fair cotton candy spinner. Time is all at once slow drips. Time explodes.
Someone trigger tripped my wires and I blew ballistic
pouring drinks over my head to mock the shy rain.
Word got out quickly. The party got crowded.
The jello shots were a wonderful rainbow.
The tornado sirens were going off and a phalanx of rain surrounded the house.
I refused to surrender. I put on a top 40 playlist and leaves filled every room. I ate
leaves and candy and chips. I forced a video cassette of collapsing buildings into myself.
I ate the house.
I ate all the furniture.
Everyone watched me eat a hole in the wall and run into the night.
It is such a still morning. The rain sits at the foot of my bed with its head cocked
about to cry and smiling. There there the rain says
to the belly of me. When it comes to rainbows you’re what just doesn’t touch the ground.
You are somewhere sometime but not for
sometimes I log onto your Netflix
and see what you’ve watched recently
wherever you are.
You’ve moved on to some new shows. I am watching you finding new ways
to make time go.
Russell Jaffe lives in Iowa City, where he makes art, teaches high school English, and is the Co-Editor of Strange Cage (strangecage.org), a handmade chapbook poetry press, and MC of its reading series. He is the author of one poetry collection, This Super Doom I Aver (Poets Democracy, ’13) and the chapbooks DOOM’D zone 1 and zone 2 (Strange Cage, ’12), (accompanied by pushpins and balloons) (The Red Ceilings, ’11), and note/worthy (Scantily Clad, ’08). His poems have appeared in The Colorado Review, DIAGRAM, H_NGM_N, American Letters & Commentary, [PANK], and others. He collects 8-tracks. Get at him at russelljaffeusa.com