Runcible Spoon

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Whenever I Get An Idea,

A Light Bulb Full of Gunpowder

Appears Above My Head



through the window

at this moment

an unsettling sight:


all over this neighborhood

made from genuine and authentic

tan suburban afternoon,

houses are dismantling themselves

in slow motion


you can see it


debris rising up into the sky

everywhere you look


beds, dressers, walls, sconces,

sinks still full of water, roofs, chairs,

everything and all else that isn’t everything

floating up into an overcast

the color of an unplugged light bulb


so when the salesman pounds on my door

and rings the bell at the same time,

what am I supposed to do?


supplicate? listen carefully to his pitch?

appreciate his enthusiasm?

why doesn’t he notice

what I can see plain as day out there?

aren’t there more pressing matters

needing our attention?


if, from here on out, it becomes necessary

to live in that inclement, vibrating and emotional hospital

where the people who can’t think right anymore

wind up spending the rest of their lives,

I want it to be my decision.