Jeff Bagato

Milkshake flumes
distract the world
into something sweet
to be consumed with ease;
warmed a bit,
those streams turn to glue
ruining the upholstery,
the carpet, the sheets

Street signs blur;
the stop sign blurs;
asphalt melts into white
rivers of goo, pitching
and tossing the dinghy
from side to side

Out of control
it slips down a hill,
stuck there like an old
bottle or another shard
of plastic in the ocean

More laughter, more jokes,
more fun and games—
Ouija trips lightly on her board,
waltzing tra la la
from consonant to consonant;
a few vowels drop in
from time to time,
silly words and phrases
bouncing off her tip:

Free lollypops in shops!
How to choose the right cruise!
Scientific study links
fast weight loss to party drinks!
Painlessly remove tags
from anywhere on your body!

The dead don’t speak this way;
it could only be a hacker
placing his noise in the line of fire
just to see confusion reign,
just so some malaprop
falls into the headline spree
selling gobstoppers along
to the nine to fives;
all the world’s an ATM;
all the world’s a cash
register chiming silvery notes
and gold alibis—
you got your baldness cream,
you got your wrinkle cream,
you got your hard on cream—
and if Ouija writes
the copy for those posts,
you get some magic
with the likes

On the back of a rhinoceros
the countess rides out
to inspect her lands,
all shopping malls and nail
salons dripping with sweat
from somebody’s brow
unseen and unknown;
the pizza parlor flips out pies
like UFOs into the atmosphere,
flying free across America
like crows or vultures
covered in red sauce
and cheese, flapping broad wings
and circling the heads
of weak individuals lying
half dead in their cars;
hamburgers walk the earth
marching straight from the griddle
and dressing up for a promenade
in sesame seed bun,
special sauce, tomato,
pickles and onion—all the best
burgers toss a pearl necklace
over their forms, like two rows
of teeth coming down for a bite,
but hamburgers can run
circles around most meat
eaters, skipping and laughing
and making a scene—beer flows
in the fountain like the perception
of time, sampled and assembled
by analog brains to push
a person out of the goo—
cars do jumping jacks at every
corner gas station, happy
to feed on the vast teat
of America, oil dripping from their holes
like french fry grease
through a paper bag full of hot
death; it’s a panorama of ice
cream bars and cigarettes
and monkeys dancing a jig
for more noodles, loaded on coffee,
and brains fit to bursting
from the rise of language and sin
like an apple pie encrypted
with credit card numbers,
addresses and lies, lies,
lies for the taxman,
the auditor, the fuzz

We can pave the world
with cheddar cheese
like a wet burrito covered
in golden ooze,
like an oil spill in Alaska,
like fracking the mind
and keeping ‘em all
at the counter

The tortilla of happiness
can wrap anyone’s burrito
in a blanket of glee;
a soft carapace to hold back vitals
while they head for the teeth;
the grinder pulps hand rolls
and hamburgs alike;
a pineapple’s the same as
a marshmallow when
the pressure is on;
the squeezer, the chopper,
the burn bag, the scythe—
all flatline everyman
to a little pile of ash—
a light load in the end
for all the fillings
and greed of a lifetime

Jolly Puss takes a stroll
along the back alleys
of the midnight world
looking for ash cans to tip
against the moon beams
holding the stars
in the sky, whiskers
quivering to climb up
there, too; when a lamp
goes out it creates a zone
of invisibility, a place
to look from while judging
the lay of the land

You can’t get tired
in the dark, because freedom
won’t wait; keep moving,
keep searching, leap
into the open windows
just to see who yells,
and if no one yells
then you have a place
to sleep come morning
as the light drives
adventure away

A fire escape is a stairway
to that moon, the rooftop
its temple mount; here
the lights of confusion
spread out on all sides
trying to put back
the order of the day
on a world best
left unseen

Please go to the edge of night with your wallet
two fisted out front and ready
to drop into my trick or treat rent box;
I’m the provider of your joy in return
‘cause you didn’t have to give
an arm or another hour
to ransom your good comfort
reputation but only a couple
bucks to the funny stranger
in his rabbit eared cap
and fuzzy galoshes,
whistling between his teeth
stuck out, dreaming of a
better life so you
won’t have to

We’re talking putting art
in your mouth and chewing it
but Archie don’t get it;
Archie don’t come down the stairs
to breathe life into ghosts
or fancies; Archie crosses
the street for meat meat
meat and potatoes no matter
how you spell it,
back to our program and
George of the Jungle swinging
in to grab that can
of beer from his hand
and get a few hits
before the producer pulls
the spot

He said quietly that you
were to follow
and yet not
see

gray papoose strolls
in flash bulb light
while a well-armed
leaf blower blows hot
on the bricks,
and the pigeons on
Andy Jackson’s head,
shoulders & horse’s ass
pose a threat to moral decency
there are chestnuts on
the ground
abandoned by squirrels
but looking good
enuff to roast—
Why not?

Start a fire here
at Jackson’s feet,
& in a little tin can
place the testicular nuts
freed from their spiky sac
& glistening;
into the fire
they go,
& glow,
and steam & sizzle —

Andy’s nostrils
flare like when a pigeon
opens its beak to coo —
as the nuts roll out hot
on a fresh copy of Examiner;

Dolley takes one
delicately in two fingers
forming a quaint O,
blows on it with
lips pursed like
a harlot —
and winks!
before taking a
delicate bite
with a kissing sound;
then I turn
& she’s gone;

the gray papoose
pats the grass
with his paws like he wants
to smooth out the world,
but the world
passes in a
cloud
of tobacco smoke
& the beeping
of a bus’s
back-assward
lurch;

what’s to do
but take a hot
nut as big
as his head
& start to gnaw
the world (this world)
to bits
to bits
to bits