by C. E. Putnam

A six-armed sex-crazed BUNNY
pulling on the string from
both ends, and jerking up
hard against your loins
without warning? You
should have become a mop. The only
thing a mind cannot reflect.
I stay put and draw
on your window from outside
in the dusty world. The sun
and shadow on your naked
from the very beginning
drifting into the ripple pool
taking the rump direction
a simple squirt of mineral oil
tiny static bubbles on your skin
adding a luster to your long-lasting
cabbage-sized poppy flowers
in purple and orange decay
a fur covered heart in plum
clouds gasping for wind
colors and sounds beg
your sinks to be unclogged right now!
The orange and brown and yellow
CLOSED Sunset Bowl Sun fenced in
by a moat of hobos CLOSED.
I like to be alone, my life in blue
mountains. We’ll see an ever
changing shift towards
zepplin pipes and butterfly plundering
as even in a soggy sand field
you can teach someone
to find something new
there. I cannot leave these peach
flowers alone. My gown is wet
palm trees coated with dairy
on a Sunday afternoon like
washing machines that anticipate
the washer’s needs.
I think that’s something
that the future has in store
for the raft.