Grading the Weekend

While sipping coffee, I read what one student wrote:
“The surviving fifty rare whooping cranes
with their seven-foot wingspread that propels them
in their annual migration from northern Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico fly unerringly
and swiftly overhead as they migrate southward
using a kind of built-in radar in their search
for winter quarters near Aransas Pass.”

Surviving fifty myself, feeling rare and whooping
with my six-foot slouch that propels me nowhere
in my daily migrations from the kitchen to the couch,
I live by the Gulf of Mexico, sleep unerringly and
swiftly, undercover, my dreams migrate southward
using a kind of built-in slinky
in search for vaginal quarters
near my wife’s Aransas Pass.

To be surviving melanoma is rare
with its seven wretched drugs I puke, that propels
me out of the gothic hospital to monthly migrations of chemo;
swimming in the Gulf of Mexico, on my back, I float unerringly
and slowly, overheard, the nurses’ whispers migrate southward
out of memory, which is a kind of built-in shit-breeder
when I am in pain and searching for the way out
near the dark rings of Uranus.

But survival is everything rare as whooping
or her pubic hair spread to propel me
in my daily migrations from her coffer to wherever
it is in the Gulf of Mexico I am off to, I unerringly
admit to caring enough to love her butt
less than I ought too as I migrate southward
using a kind of built-in stupidity
in my blindly succumbing to what is expected of me
clearly perfecting it into a fairly fucked life.

© 2015  Kurt Lovelace – All Rights Reserved

Schlimmbesserung

(def: German. An improvement that makes things worse.)

Benched downtown, lipping a latte, my eyes
pause at the vast new construction
glistening across the street. In its shadow

I watch a bird die into the third story
of its reflection. Falling, it intimates to me
the terribly intimate stupidity of the engineer

who flowered the foresight that birds
might mistake themselves for their reflections,
but the engineer, who, nevertheless

got up every morning and shaved money
from the budget of his building,
now grows his dead birds on the pavement.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved

French Kiss

Aliens are orbiting earth, dining
on a dimmed diamond table. Oceans
float in windows the size of walls.

On transparent aluminum toothpicks
hover two lips with tongues, sans mouth, sans face,
sans head, sans bodies — wrapped like bacon

around each other, gingerly pushed through
intact lips as appetizer, the whole
human entrée hoisted up behind it,

anatomy impeccably arranged.

copyright © 2015 Kurt Lovelace All Rights Reserved