The Beers are gasping fish
and it’s too bad about their intelligence
because they are your children because sharing blood
makes them so. They foam and look like
my piss, sliding to me deep while
feeling like dusty grays.
Bobby Knight felt peace as he chucked
a White Castle at Asia over a
The Beers are too smart for your evolution
and will chuckle behind your back as you
lift glass with both hands.
What happened to the orange groves and tarantula
farms God hid by the creek
You don’t need to be botherin’ wit dat chickenhead.
The grainy television of happiness is cable-ready,
do not fret, you’re safe
as raw chicken and hair triggers.
As Bobby Knight awoke he found himself
knitting the veil of darkness that would cover the sun—
it smelled of bacon grease, felt of five o’clock shadows,
and within its fibers he could hear the whines of his
Jesse tastes the bees of life but talking about it’s
what makes them sting.
There will be a day when space comes to us and
so will The Beers.
Everyone will love you when you become
sticky enough to force them to.
The Beers stole your bicycle and girlfriend Patty.
The Beers smothered your cat because you said it
The Beers knitted the sweater of darkness that
would fit snug around the sun—
smelling of dog-carpet, feeling of a decade callous,
and within its yarns you can hear the laugh track
of the television of future.