In a field of concrete bunkers,

The left from the middle is guarded by a charred garden gnome

With a necklace of battery powered light up flamingos

And Cheerios

The hat of the gnome sits by an open hatch

The rim of which wears

Teal chains and hula fringe and

Cyborg rhino keychains

The ladder is cut from a sheet of metal

That had a ******* poster on it

And a mural of a man screaming

White and black lines

With a meeting seaweed mustache

And empty picnic baskets

Line the hallway lighted with fireflies and Christmas spirits

I drop a smoke down the hatch and wait for it to bloom

my reincarnation is that of a treasured cup

i’m almost entirely certain that my death will play a role in the cup’s creation

whether it be the clay I molded my alien hitch hiking signs into

or its maker lays back and reads in a hammock the same hours I do

just half way around the world

once my soul has leaked and drained through hell’s piping system

and what’s left escapes through condensation

the clouds will carry me to a bazaar

where the ceramic painting class is struggling to use oils

with rainy weather

in ******* up the work of most attendees

several of them will hide me in backs of cupboards

until they move or my soul dies of dust

one, if god allow two

painted mugs

are repeatedly stacked with layers of sediment

coffee, *****

tea, *****

coffee

tea with *****

a cigarette accidentally

my father should feel proud to know

his son’s vices followed him through the afterlife

that i got a nice home

that i accepted leaving parts of my soul in old cupboards

(Dad), i didn’t mean to contact the aliens so recklessly,

and i feel like I have to get off my *** if i read too much

i’m sorry i thought smoking was non-conformist

you’re right, i lied a couple of times

it cost just as much integrity as you said it would

i know i will do much better as a treasured cup

i keep my pride under house arrest

tied to an enema of ***** soda

that stops at the border of the premises

what a great laugh crawls from the nailed headboards

and sips from my resolve

i try not to show my subordinates the pressure points I worry about

but the maintenance staff knows too much

the maintenance staff keeps us up the most

they read the cracks in the plates

silverware scratched from being thrown around

every shard is collected

the professionals recommend 3 square meals a day

my pride is offered for breakfast

3 eggs, potatoes made one way, a dragonball shaped pancake

with 5 chocolate chips, and an apple skewered sideways

coffee is poured over top soul

my pride is offered for lunch

grilled cheese, something plain and boring, chips, something also plain and boring,

Gatorade, or overdone redemption

my pride is offered for dinner

grease, a good burrito with grease, an IPA,,,toast to mix things up, a joy ride with Cassidy, a waterbed of folk music, (zero ***** given), pesto penne, another IPA, a timeshare just south, and sometimes dessert

after yelling at the neighbors some

and a few reruns on adult swim

the ***** soda kicks in with a little extra

and puts us all to sleep

in 25 years

when the sentence is over

I don’t think it will find the same 3 square meals a day

We are gathered here today

In the Church of Y2K

To celebrate our word and savior,

Java C

Lift your antennas and let us pray

Our father who art in service

Hallowed be thy wave

Thy computer come, thy will be done

In life as it is Internet

Give us this day our daily update

And forgive us our bugs

As we also have forgiven our programming

And lead us not into life

But deliver us from reality

Forever the monotony, the lifeless, and the holy code

I tell you my friends, I have come to doubt the scripts

I woke up this morning to find my feed filled, but my soul hungry

Throughout the day, my devices said I was charging, but my batteries were dead

When I felt nothing left,

I remembered the simple calculator,

Its solar cells still breathing after living ****** in a drawer

The revelation I bring forth to you today is this

Drown your devices

Soak your SIM cards

**** the frequencies you are attuned to

And abandon your provider

There was life that preceded us

An evolutionary process the corrupt have cursed, wiped, and reduced to bits

In those fragments of simplicity left in you

You will find an outlet of energy of nuclear proportions

I am a French horn, a bottle neckless hourglass and butterscotch tape

You're a red harp with veins painted on the side

When I come home, you see me as an acrylic heap with chips of lead and belly aching homing words

Scotch sticks and smoke smells and the stitches are uncomfortable on my neck where you often warm your hands

I am a masquerade of shellfish clamoring on about the epitome of burlesque humor

You’re alien to anything other than sourdough and design

I have structured my thesis around burlesque and you fail to see the humor

When I fear the apologists

You fear the escapists

I am the tigers of the world, borrowing viciousness

You’re a long pause, loved and disquieted, painting my stripes as veins

I’m freaked out now because the apologists are escaping and the escapists are apologizing

At this clear impasse, you pity and press on until my fingers at the French horn drain to my sides

I am an island in a puddle of sand

my great throat tree is featured in float parades now

sponsored by paper mills

they send us free notebooks and you leave me

rounds of exquisite corpse to play

or folded frogs

or news of another alleged abduction with ***** political jokes in the margins

or the times you jot down to remember when you thought of the ghost

when i find these on my table, i sneak off for a phone call to the mattress

the mattress doesn’t care to watch parades on live broadcasted television

i can hear the ghost making breakfast on the other end

the mattress stares at the ceiling mostly and i remember this and i’m so

thankful

for you

i pick up a folded sheet and draw the trunk torso

and inside the tree trunk i draw a little man playing the french horn

but before drawing hearts spilling from the brass

i drew a massive ***

i smiled, knew you’d appreciate it, and started sweeping

the tree in my throat started budding, i coughed up flowers

shaped like ******* and my doctor

called the government

now they want to sever my neck, count my rings and guess my age

i am afraid the sap will start seeping and i am afraid

that you are committed to the idea of putting your ear against the hole

the government is calling again, this time of an alien kind

they are also curious

i offered them my toes, but only soil drained from my shoes when removed

i guess you’re going to have to sweep more often

dirt, petals, and alien footprints

the mattress is possessed and my days are numbered

my numbers are possessed and

tree branches are starting to grow from inside

my neck, sprouting ****** bulbous limbs

wearing the springs of my mattress

in my sleep, the tree talks to my mattress

from my throat

they are in cohorts and I suppose

the ghost has nothing to do with it

but in the end the ghost will

have an affair with the mattress

and they will run away leaving the tree

and my numbers

I can’t speak because of the

tree

and the karmic terror

of the heavy branches tearing

through my throat

the ghost doesn’t know about the tree

the mattress will never tell her

the mattress is missing several springs

the mattress is possessed and can only speak in tongues

so the ghost only hears the whispers of leaves