My watermelon head is too big for
my body. The gray matter is pink from the ocean of
blood which creeps in and soaks
my cells, nibbling on my neurons dancing with the
endorphins in an electric
chemical tango. And yes there are seeds
there. Little black thoughts like tumors that want to
be spat out on others and plan deep within loved
ones. And yes, my complexion
has turned green. And yes, the only fit thing is to cut
up this skull and share it in the summer. Please feed
some to the sparrows.
My heart is carved into a misshapen
acorn—afraid to attempt oakism.
Passed around by rodents and then thrown by
wind onto asphalt. The shell is hard and
callused but has kept a crack from which its
one eye peers fearful at the three blades of
grass forcing their way through the pavement,
and the tree which casts a shadow over it.
Planting would be a good thing, yes, finding some
space in soil and tucked deep in that
brown sweater. But there is something else it
needs. How can it crawl in earth and crave
light at once? Now there is only concrete
and the thin veil shadow from nearby oaks.
My penis is a dowsing rod for females.
A branch cut apart from some other thing’s tree. It
works in solitaire—it does not care about my moods
or what may be best at any time. Conventions mean
nothing—and big tits are not needed. Some
times just a smile in sunlight. But yet at times it is the
only part of me I can depend on. My head can fly off
on anything and can never seem to stick to the
subject. My heart speeds at sex
and fear as if they were the same thing. At
least my penis is predictable. Though
there are times when it points too proudly.
Originally published in The Portable Wall, No. 25, Fall 1996