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a woman builds a paper boat 

out of overdue notices 

and lets it drift across her kitchen floor. 

Her daughter folds spoons into antennae—

tries to catch voices 

from a radio station that doesn’t exist

but still hums like something alive. 

Outside, 

the neighborhood leans toward fire.

Mailboxes swallow letters unopened.

Doors forget how to open back. 

At the bus stop, 

a man tapes Polaroids 

of things he’s lost 

to the underside of the bench: 

a dog’s tooth, 

a ribcage x-ray, 

a love letter with half the ink eaten by mold. 

This is 

not an edge 

but a ritual of almosts. 

Some call it surviving. 

Others call it rehearsing for disappearance. 

The woman lights a candle 

under a colander 

and says it keeps the roof from falling in.

Who are we to argue? 

By dusk, the paper boat 

has made it to the front door. 

No one opens it. 

They just watch.

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just to get distracted by something nasty, 

(i must find a john) 

i’m at the crosswalk where john n’ the boys pranced across the chalky white rectangular blocks like they were Beethoven’s chubby fingers walking over piano keys 

a father watches his son and daughter take turns cartwheeling on the pavement across from me the daughter can do them with one hand now 

i’m about to have a daughter of my own 

through my large intestine, 

she’s pushing and swimming her way 

(shall i call her dirty maggie mae?) 

she’s begging to come out through my backside’s bathroom window 

i check every corner store around 

looking for maggie’s future birthplace 

one that likely doesn’t have ringo sized walls between the urinals 

(why are brits always tryna take a peep at their mate’s pipsqueak?) 

all the clerks shoo me away while snickering 

just because i said bathroom instead of loo 

stirring a feeling presumably similar to paul’s 

when john would whisper shit all over his songs 

years before johnny got shot by some piece of shit that puts dear maggie to shame a fella that burped out the words, 

the beatles changed the world, 

and i changed the beatles 

by that logic, 

abbey road changed the beatles, 

and the beatles changed the world, 

so if I change abbey road, 

i change the world 

or maybe i’ll just be some stupidly chapped man wanting to be famous 

one who succeeded by tearing a hole through a man like he was cheap and thin linen now he lives the rest of his days in a nowhere room, 

making nowhere plans, 

for nobody 

no, i’m not him 

maybe i’m the eggman 

or maybe i’m the fool on the hill 

dropping a poo for the kill 

but not on the people, 

on their vacations 

none of them gave me an invitation 

but in the middle of their celebration, 

i squat down 

and start growing my tail

as my rectum gently weeps, 

so does the father’s daughter 

i tell her: 

sweet pretty darling, 

do not cry 

i know my moans sound like some wacky walrus lullaby 

maybe this’ll make for a good tale for her to tell someday 

One i don’t need to be awake for 

perhaps i can skip this event with a kip 

(sleep is the ultimate emergency exit) 

but maggie won’t allow it 

she’s too heavy 

and there’s something in the way she moves 

that distracts me like no other 

something in the way she slides outta me 

oh darling! 

why’d you have to do me such harm? 

why couldn’t we just do this alone? 

squirting yourself out like some mean spicy mustard 

slipping out the rims of my ass 

and then belching out emptiness 

like air escaping a vacant squeeze bottle 

and this turd is green! 

her parents must of been those chicken and egg butties I had for tea time 

i look around 

everyone on abbey road is wild’n out 

now goes the father’s son 

(he just blacked out) 

while dear maggie mae plops out 

posing herself on that toilet paper crosswalk block 

dazed and confused 

and hotter than 90s parker posey 

just doing what she please 

what can i tell you? 

she had to be free 

i just hope i didn’t catch a disease 

now everyone is here 

bungalow bill, eleanor rigby, lady madonna, 

rocky raccoon, sexy sadie, polythene pam, 

all the king’s horses and all the king’s men 

all coming together 

over me 

and my little miss stinky 

Now i have to pee

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I straddle
his mouth like I’m
riding a motorcycle.
I play this part
for rhythm
& precision
& the salty dog feeling
of lips wrapped around
the tight cane tip
of the man’s
Sunday afternoon
saxophone.

Aaron Eckhart’s wig as a character actor
(from Erin Brockovich, 2000)

the lonely hair of the Everyman, this golden
crown. A pound of straw, a wheat
king
long
liquid sun.

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