Grotesque Finger Puppets
I am the pastor
of grotesque
finger puppets
irresistible groans
& slimy white things
that crash into the windshield
of your Toyota Highlander
during a roadtrip
i am the flaw
in your grandma's linoleum
that vaguely
resembles
the lifeless foreskin
of a circumcised elf
i am the bed sores
& golden showers
that dictate
the law of gravity
in your
gastro-intestinal
tract
i am the
5’ 7” muscle bound
steroid freak
whose hairy asshole
comes equipped
with abnormally advanced
teleportation devices
that rival that
of Captain Kirk’s
USS Enterprise
and if you
rub me the wrong way
i will zap
a set of
permanent
skid marks
straight into
your Fruit-of-the-Looms
that are harder to wipe
than a chalkboard
marred with
magic marker and spray paint
but alas,
all of this could be avoided
if someone was just willing
to finger my puppet.
AT THE NURSING HOME
Rumor has it,
Mrs. Lapaglia
from room 102
has been ostracized
from the recreation hall
for calling false bingos,
& Dickie Kaplan,
that deaf-mute fella
from room 302
who spends every day
splayed on the floor
imitating the gestures
of inanimate objects,
used to be a mime,
& old Louise
from room 252
is accusing
the orderlies
of trying
to impregnate her
with sperm tainted enemas,
& Mr. Padgit,
the retired
drill instructor
from room 182
thinks his neck brace
is a clerical collar,
so he wanders
the halls
like a faith healer,
slapping the forehead
of every resident
he encounters.
Refrigerated whispers perpetuate the revolution
two dozen tongues
are shackled
to a lisp.
all correspondence
freezes
as
a deafening
sibilance
drenches the
carpet
&
8 lbs of headache
sinks into
a vat of
boiling
pancake batter.
the army
will eat good
tonight
even though
the mimes
refuse to
negotiate.
DOOMSDAY CULTS & SKINNY CARAMEL LATTES
6:37 p.m.
the café reeks
of dead matches
& stale cigarettes;
my mouth tastes
like a salmonella sandwich
& all i got is a cold cup of coffee
& yesterday’s paper.
a bible study group
congregates at the next table,
there is at least a dozen of them,
young, tattooed & pierced
sipping on skinny caramel lattes
& cappuccinos; their heads nod
in unison to a chorus of “AMENS”
while their eyes blaze
with pent-up holy-fire
begging to be released.
they join hands & engage in
a round of prayer
that gradually disintegrates
into conspiratorial whispers
stifled giggles
suspicious glances
& i am seized
by a sudden paranoia
& my imagination runs amok:
‘are they a doomsday cult?’
‘are they planting the seeds of
a terrorist crusade for god?’
there is a tension in the air
as one of them points
at a maroon chevy
in the parking lot
& mutters something
about the offensive ‘DARWIN’
bumper sticker & how the owner
is going to burn in hell
& then there is a round
of hideous snickers, amens,
& hallelujahs.
i get nervous & want to leave
but i am too afraid
because that is my maroon chevy
& i don’t want to become the 1st casualty
of their holy war.
DARWINIAN NUNS & THE EMBRYO ORPHANAGE
Atheists
disguised
as scientists
are breeding
Darwinian nuns
in the embryo orphanage
while every night
somewhere
in the world
a remarkable 2.7 million
kamikaze moths
perish
as a result
of dive bombing
porch lights
& contrary to popular belief
9 out of 10
laboratory monkeys
prefer to copulate
missionary style
& an astonishing 35%
of all proctologists
moonlight
as puppeteers
& an even more astonishing
73% of all puppeteers
moonlight
as proctologists.
