t i r e d c a r r o t s
J A N E T B U C K
As a firing squad for wayward ghosts,
booze is a cap gun,
not the bullet you need it to be.
Sweet draw through thirsty lip lock.
Moat stew turns mud.
Dries. Dirt remains.
You live in an urn.
Reeling in tangled real.
Besoin aches but nothing in French
(nothing that smooth is on the shelf).
Books of past fall from backs
of pick-up trucks.
Freeway speeds of borrowed bliss
are always such delusive reins.
When sirens of morning ring in ears,
head swells seem like funny papers
some trapped dog's been pissing on.
Rabid raisins of haunted eyes
lust for the grapes that held up vines.
Spring retreats because
you cheated on the sun.
Your arms snap like tired carrots
on the way to the fridge.
Bagged until you've grown blue mold.
Steel magnet of lost control.
Bankin' on the wrong damned river,
I understand your fishing pole.
Brandy's sweet gold chariot
drove our family heritage.
The fire was warm in memory,
but somehow went and boomeranged.
Porous cork--a broken thumbtack
pushing in a falling wall.
Fencing with a butter knife--
takin' a Cu-Tip
to a slaughterhouse floor.
© crossconnect 1995-2000
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house