My Book Report on the Afterlife
When it set in, MoMo said
it’s humid as dicks on turkey day.
Tony Pepperoni said through the grapes I taste
lightning. Turn your bikes upside down. Run.
May we all snap like sausages done right.
May emergency broadcasts interrupt Aerosmith
forevermore. Show me one flashlight
that isn’t fumbled for. File into the hall,
fall on your knees, cover your head.
Now is a good time to imagine peanut butter,
the creaming of your house.
I’m no flat top. 7-Up and coal
bricks don’t move my grease.
I’ve got batteries charging inside
and when they’re ready angular
70s jams will crawl over the porch
like carpenter ants on amphetamines
infesting the neighbors’ watercolors by number.
I live outdoors, people,
raised on tent stakes and ground chuck.
This barbecue looks like a coffin because it is.
What are you so bonesad about?
This is what we do when it’s light.
Then we ride dirt bikes
through the mossiest part of the woods.
If someone wipes out the party swells
to epic. The old man does the goose dance.
Guess your pitching speed at the church
carnival, win a two liter.
All my clairvoyant friends have diabetes,
listening to the Indians fall in an alarm
clock radio, and nobody brings perch
home for months. Boats
rotting on trailers, lonesome
batter calling out to grease.
Our lake was tasered while we slept.
This up-ticks my brother’s blood pressure.
He makes a basement of his house
and one of his head at the office.
I want to buy us two nice bikes
and start a lawn cutting business.
He looks like paper
without a match held up to it.
Patrick Culliton is a small blue sock from Ohio. His chapbook,
, is available from Octopus Books.
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