Eye Doughnut

My filthy ashtray baseball cap
hangs from the dartboard. The Basset Hound
dictionary fills the air
with wet dog letters waiting to
be understood. A crowded house of socks
and trombones. Walls of drums beat Phil
Specter to an ant speck. Gold bars. Cocaine.
Nasty pussy at 3 AM. Hello Nasty.

Serious jokes fall flat. 12 year old girls show
up with bumps. A year away from mono threats.
They sit and watch the window squirm. I watch
as well. All dumb. Threading needles through
fancy eyeholes. I hate Nike.

Stains burst through panties. Explode onto
the carpet in echo agony. Sanitary red. Liquid
glory. Done completed white, frothy. A scented
candle drips....drops. The crown hangs from
thighs.

Bar music plays poker. The house stands on
wooden legs.

Letters pressed hard against the mattress
a thru z
and back again once more. Its all up
and down. Everything is. Guns shoot off.
Guys get off. Girls grow their bumps into
opportunity. Dogs still eat from bowls from
Sunday to Monday.

Oil is pressed and paintings are attempted
on canvas. On flesh. On bone. With eye whisker
brushes under every ceiling in the world. I can see
it. I can see it all. But
I don’t know a eyedropper from a doughnut.

Never had. Never will.