"MY KNEECAP"

(NEW POEM, AFTER CHICKEE CHICKSTON)

my kneecap

after the flarf standard ‘my mary oliver’ by chickee chickston. for marty, who would find the whole thing hilarious.

my kneecap has four stomachs:
the hood in its harvest of heads,
a sloven’s bucket, the wet gape
of a rubber boot, this rattlebag
of dubious bones. my kneecap
does it’s own stunts; thin squint
of conspiracy. mutiny consumes
the mouth. hot dole dropped
down the back of the neck: ni
maith liom bhur dtrioblóid, says
some wiseacre, or other. my
kneecap inhales the gluey
scent of new trainers, swinging
down the springfield road in
neat apocalyptic sunshine.
look! the brain, its corrugated
interface. look! a bilingual
knob joke. how’s that for
progress? my kneecap knows:
everything’s for sale. encircled
by summary justice, lacoste,
ford cortinas, ketamine, etc.
my kneecap turns into
the skid. it knows where
the stash is. it knows where
the cache is. my kneecap’s
no tout. slouch down to
a screening, picking its nose.
my kneecap’s seen the future.
it follows the money. it goes
where it goes. my kneecap,
a yellow pages worth
of shooting pains. hair
in the sink. it burns both
times, we burn both ways.

http://jacketmagazine.com/30/fl-chickston.html