Thursday, October 1, 2009

Maurice Oliver

Dungtitled (The Remix)

I was given one wish.

Then later, 1960 drives
down the highway
to no where near here.
I sleep in the car
overnight and wake-up
at the edge of the
ocean while sunlight
softens the hardwood
floors. That's one
example! Here's another;
think white swans
or a trumpet playing
Miles Davis. You
remember him. He was
so famous a whole
university town was
named in his honor. And
at dusk students gather
on the corner under
streetlights secure in
their dust bunnies.
Pads of yellow butter
with pancakes. Icebergs
that always seem blue.
Swords when they are
sharp. And for seven
years now the war rages
on, slowly eating the roof
off the gingerbread house.

More Plots, Some Consequential

Roads get me nearer.

And just like that, I arrive. Life takes off,
clapping its hands. Joy tickles me pink
as a soft breeze blows over my drama
of salvation.

But the most amazing thing of all is that
I am randomly chosen from a crowd of
begger's in the marketplace. Dust
magically disappeared from my shoes.

Almost anything on the horizon offers
me an opportunity and smells like a
bakery shop, with a bright fancy awning.

Self-Portrait, Wearing Shoe Lifts

she claims her garden has no gender but is continuously
sprinkled lightly with black pepper

royal weddings need no passport to travel and always take
place on a water bed

that white linen is the Siberia of head colds only a few really
know how to give good thigh kisses

doctors without borders eat rustling leaves and can
be stuffed in a tiny vlevet coin purse

all cigarette vending machines have receeding hairlines
in the July of their ancestors

irrepressible posture is the result of stove-top dressing
with too much codeine in its shipwreck

Finding Hug-Worthy Karma

In this scenario the cafe only serves celestrial ring tones.
We sit at window seats waiting for the stars to come out.
She wears a house with a screen door and I'm dressed

in an exploding oil rig. We order diamonds on the souls
of Motown's shoes and cattle in market place. I insist that
any self-erasure is due to old mildewed pup-tents. She

firmly believes that shotrly after the bank heist Detriot
may use the tunnel to flee to Canada. Love is our pair of
football cleats. Dreams are freight trains passing through

our medieval brothel or the bomb in the baby carriage is
a threat only if you don't know how to parallel park. Both
of us do. So we let our jump shots pack for the trip and

aim for constellations in a far corner of the sky. And at
that point in the script, an extra walks under the rolled-out
striped awning, leaving bread crumbs as a trail. 

Instuctions When Entering A Lion's Den

Our chit-chat spends a quiet evening at home.
She says her anti-depressants have no gender
and that they'd never use a roll-on deodorant. She

is dressed in a pepper shaker and I'm wearing an
entire salt mine. Our romantic road map has
mistakenly been unfolded in a lion's den with only

a pair of thick leather reins because she can't find
the key to the handcuffs. Born an atheist with one
can of insect spray. Tongue-tied and convinced of

the power of medicine men. We're suppose to allow
our desires to feed on us like a school of fish feeds
on oil rig pilings. That part of the game is easy. The

hard part is trying to pretend to be interested in what
the lion is saying with our straight-jackets, especially
since he's become so talkative after a few drinks.

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