Fecal Matter

Once there was a great mysterious whale
who lived under the sea with Disney characters.
The whale was a girl whale, and she smiled a lot.
She smiled because she had braces as a calf
and wanted to show off her pearly baleen.

This she-whale had always been unpopular.
She enjoyed maritime literature much more so than
the popular activities her pod was so involved with.
The whale knew the ocean well, but wondered why no one liked her.
She was happy, but lonely.

One day she decided to go on an adventure, in the hopes she'd fit in.
Spring Break 2010! Finally!
She packed her overnight bag, pierced her fin, and even
BBMed her other whale friends so that they'd see
that she was up with the times.

Surprisingly, no one was interested in the Gulf that year.
"OMG, that was soooo 2009!" they giggled and splashed salt at her.
Everyone knew that the hotspot this year was the Bay of Bengal.
So she went alone, blowing through her hole,
not stopping until she got there.

Then the whale got covered in putrid poisonous black oil.
She couldn't breathe, and soon stopped smiling.
Her baleen wasn't white anymore and her blowhole got stuck.
No book had ever told her that the water could turn into sludge.
"Glug glug glug," she cried.

Pictograph

Someone, some time long ago,
figured out how to see inside women's bellies.

The little galaxy inside has no missiles,
or jet-packs, or black holes.

Bean-shaped, this is the shelter for
all the potential there could possibly be.

Squeezed into six centimeters of electricity
and charge and love and amino acids.

Morning Sickness

Rye toast with butter has the exact same taste as morning breath.
If you add jam, it confuses you into thinking it isn't the same flavor.
But it is.

You offer small pieces of toast in order to make sure I have
something in my belly with which to start the day.
I'm not sure that's cutting it.

Sometimes I like to eat other things, you know?
Maybe some peaches and cream,
or
rice cakes
or
eggs Benedict
or
the unconditional love and affection and respect of another beautiful,
intelligent, empathetic, compassionate and honest human-being.

I mean, rye toast is good and all, but it still tastes like morning breath.

1956 (maybe?), downtown New York City

Animations with solid color and rigid lines.
Oh, that clever style with cocktail glow
and wit based out of books.

People wearing neckties and white espadrilles.
They read newspapers while making love and
drinking gin and tonics.

Temperature steams the summer.
Everyone's rhythm is full of sweat and fake
bossa-nova steps mingled with "American sophistication".

The Peterson account has him working late.
She sits, smoking suspiciously on the balcony.
They have matching hers and his towels.

She wears red lipstick and does not understand
John Coltrane or the New Yorker.
He loves her anyway.

Independence Day Haiku

It's like Vietnam.
Sulfur and soda combine.
Laughter makes us free.

Spies

Two young spies wearing checkered blazers
and thick-rimmed glasses
trip over beige, improvised obstacles.

They sit behind their super-computer.
One of the spies has dark ringlets of hair
that sweep over his skull like clouds.

The other spy keeps extra supplies
inside an old fashioned doctor bag
but is still light on her feet.

No one, everyone sees them.
They gather information to send off
to someone they don't know and will never meet.

Their lives are full of danger, intrigue, drama.
They wait for no one to assist them and
see only enemies at every turn.

Care-free and inconspicuous,
these two gray-looking spies
cover the world in foot tracks.