Ive been sleeping with the
undisputed prize of my hometown,
but I wish she could be a
little more animate, especially today.
The spokes at the K-6 bike-a-thon
have all turned gold, inexplicably
in the night while they were waiting
patiently, exposed and vulnerable on the
pith dark black top.
Our favorite past-time has evolved
into flush faced screaming decathlons
that would be evenly matched if it
wasnt for your mother, the greatest
anchor leg runner to ever live.
A congregation of kindergarteners
donning t-shirts commemorating the
sacrifice of unicorns has amassed
at the gates of heaven and theyre ready
for the free rides and goodie bags.
Fool the Pigs!
My first wife was raised in a Chinese barn,
on the outskirts of Middle America,
working and eating alongside sows and piglets.
Her mother said it was to fool the Gods; my
wife says it was more to fool the pigs.
I first met her there, wallowing in the mud
bath with her sibling swine, satisfied with a
full, naked belly in the half-cocked sun.
Thats the one I want, I said to the sun-painted farmhand,
pointing to the muddy pink ball of nude innocence.
You sure you want the runt, son? Not too much
bacon there, the farmhand said having taken
cues from the greasy salesman that put him behind
the wheel of the artifact he called a pick-up.
Thats plenty of bacon for me, I say climbing
over the wooden restraint, neglecting the
delicacy of my soft leather wingtips.
When the farmhand accepted my sincerity,
he hopped into the slop as well, pausing for
reassurance before gathering up my blossoming
lover. I nodded and in mere moments my
blushing baby bride was wrestled from the shit
riddled muck and into my silky white arms.
After a few minutes of resistance, my little beast
was at ease against my breast, lulled by the
gentle woos I spilled into her tiny ears. Her mother
signed the pedigree and I signed the check,
and she and her farmhand waved as we set off
to enter the great marriage maze, traveling
in a sputtering black jalopy.