Preceding A Rumble Extraordinary

In swagger anointed awesome pesto pinprick
could pronounce pucker-up doll between
canine teeth but better pro-active unless the
cherry kissing shame lamb mild mutant melody
in stage props painted bright lime or exposed
to a lab rat outhouse of pre-amp first prize
ringing prissy ears quick or gut gills or a manual
might help on the fresh seedling ripe ribbon
wrapped schizo present to stud an eyebrow or
brown nose a puppy pillow out to drip-dry until
gotcha dish cloth is erotically squeezed into a
silo calf humble in painted boxer shorts your rat
resume then splatter rented nimbus all over
behaving weird with a stutter to the goose step
& if so you may want to consult your physician.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Torture Or Truth Serum

There’s no mystery to this-

Man was born with hands full of nothing.
Hands are startlingly small when one
considers what’s expected of them. They
must always be anointed before they
are blessed. Fingers control life’s sewing
machine and a callous is never carved in
stone. Hands will wrinkle if left in water
too long. Fingernails can be eaten in a
bind or saved in memory of. Any skin that
covers the knuckles began as an animal,
regardless of the texture or hue, and even
if the feathers have already been plucked.
What else? O yeah, hands have the power
to halt the world, if they so choose.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Preparing For The Bank Hoist (the audio version)

Most people forget the story before the newspaper yellows.

And after lying low for a while, Woody Allen
Invites me to his château in Switzerland.
We sit in armchairs made of soft leather in

his paneled library, sipping champagne, as
we plan the next bank hoist. Suddenly, the
phone rings and it’s Charlie Chaplin calling

To tell us he’s fallen in love with a blind girl.
He says he’s staring at her that very moment
but she’s staring somewhere into space.

He claims she can lip-read and has carbon
footprints that can cross the floor in
complete silence. For some reason though,

he doesn’t say a word about the body in
the trunk of the car at the airport or the
waitress with the tattoos who works in a cozy

little bar & grill with Tiffany-styled lamps hanging
over the tables, but is really the seeing-eye dog
who’ll drive the getaway car when we leave

our next crime scene. Chaplin is a bit
weird. He’s the kind who contemplates the
gentleness of the Netherlands while listening

to Wagner through headphones. He once wrote
a thesis on ninety-five ways to find a paradise
worth throwing a shoe at. I’ve even seen him

wear a begonia behind one ear, hoping it would
prepare him for becoming an old man. Personally,
I prefer a little desert town, with a lone stop light.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Smut Cheater

Even at night with no lights on

a baby cracks the mirror. Let’s just pretend I’m a
dirty dish who becomes a dog leash. I said “zoo”
not “theme park”. Smut cheater. There’s more;
An albino vamp with one egg too many.

Blue vase. Sky. Lake.

People often sleep in the rented houseboats.

In a brand new pair of peek-a-boo sneakers

(do you crime around here much I ask the stranger)

who says yes

　
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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Virtue

In a lesson in virtue the martyr trades
in his wings for a day at the
beach where he strolls
past the lighthouse
with real sand
in his shoes
taped
to the tidepool
of mercy where one
look at his reflection is all it
takes to realize that
somehow he’s
been gulled
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Longing For A Pastoral Environment

In this scenario we try to slay a dragon that’s really
only a lizard. I steal the swords we use. She borrows

a pair of Betty Davis eyes but forgets to bring the
Visine. Our thirst has no fear nor has it ever been

green. She says she believes a golf course should be
built only on land overlooking the sea. I say I believe

man has been put here to suffer especially when he’s
about to tee on the green. We both agree that games

should never be played in a moral gymnasium because
the token fairway could just as easily be a bunker. The

angles in the architecture are actually errors of Eros.
and while all of this is being sorted out, the dragon

turns into a Wal-Mart store’s restroom where all you
can find is single-ply toilet paper.

　
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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Luftballoon

Life licks its small box adrift over Dresden and suddenly

everything mushrooms after that as motormouth shatter

screams known adjectives using clouded words that stain

the lining of love dressed in the wrong costume for the wrong

occasion by a cast of real people cut from magazines that

list culprits in tiny clear bubbles of spit in two separate acts

followed by intermission then finally the postcard from

nowhere arrives to replace the horizon after just one take.　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Until Venus Is Synonymous With Beekeeper

She describes herself as usually resembling a honeycomb.

She says she always feels like the back seat of a car

with her emotions in the glove compartment.

What else. Well, she is the first to admit

she can swirl any lead drink while

weaving an impeccable sailor

with one leg raised. She

claims her red

beads

conceal a

domestic stage

and thather affection

for a believable tomorrow

hinges on one rare morphemic

tide. I have personally seen her slice

a lemon with bathtub cleanser then stuff

the rest of the rose garden in a trash bag. I've

bared witness to the power of her Dorian Gray which

can literally cause cats and dogs to mate or a

professional lair to prosper. Three is her

magic amigo using a Disney movie

rated GP-13. In short, utter

has to be her madness,

where the nature

of Bach is not

to stand

still. And let's

face it, you can't help

but appreciate the way she

bounces on a starter, like a diver

on a board. And sincerely encourages

everyone to do it.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Food For Thought, Congealing On The Table

The world is lost luggage, she insists.

I say vision should first be scrubbed blind, then stained
with indigo to see the violence in our hearts, because
no one should have to confess under fluorescent lights.
Of course, I’m the same person who use to think sinful
thoughts were fired from pellet guns and that love had
to travel along an automatic pulley and then through
plastic flaps. I thought that if I grieved it was by default
and that a little kindness could stitch up its own gaping
wound. Now, I realize the common denominator is a
black mark shaped like an X and that most of what you
read in the paper are sentences purposely meant to
end in a question mark. Still, black mark or question
mark the halo resembles an O, just brighter.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

At Last The Air So Steep

Let’s suppose
I was the cosmonaut
in a rocket to noon
as bronze as a sunset
or blind as a bullet
I’d listen for the
cling in a chainlink fence
wearing real snakeskin
or dragonflies in the reeds
out of radio range
while laughing in fluent Spanish
I might mistake myself
for the future
or heart of rain
drying on the roof
where arms fail
to hug each other
or slightly ajar
then applying the car’s
brakes into a curve
where nobody was looking
I wonder which of us
died first or could
we be just one of the
billions of personal stories
waiting for the wind
to turn the page.

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Thread In A Nightmare

And if you space the stitches far enough apart you’ll find:

-Bugaloo swirled in the calligraphy.

-Pink plastic parrots in a pet shop window.

-Three ripples in a wooden rain barrel.

-Dr. Frankenstein’s monster embalmed in a pickle jar.

-A bad sunburn of holster noose leather.

-Several ghost bugs caught in your underarm deodorant.

-The old-age door knob of turquoise jewelry.

-A perpendicular skull of mittened hands.

-Pearl barrettes holding a Philippine village for ransom.

-The braided kingdom of a shingled goldfish bowl.

　
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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Adjacent Promenade

Sixty-eight poppies
A slobbering madonna nods twice
‘Till marshes resemble stanzas
In darkness with no instructions
A parody historicism’s fatuity
Newly flared in cuffs
Nickel slots

Peek

Peck

Rub-on a little future
dreamathon
dance steps
little worlds are images
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Deliciously.At Random

Listen. Here’s another scenario.

Maybe if we sit long enough daylight
will gradually fade. We
could use nighttime’s neon as a
backdrop. We could let
our minds become one with sky
spies & pretend we’re on
a journey in a convoy headed for
the spice islands. We’ll
discard our chlorinated lunches or
love stuck to the bathroom
floor. My tongue could cruise around
your navel or the edge of
an empire. We’ll learn to think
enormous without even going
to the library. And we can do it all
at this little yellow canvas umbrella
sticking out, confident it
won’t remember a thing.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.

Redeemable, Like A Coupon

While dusty creepers strangle each other for
space on a wrought-iron gate at the zoo:

a red light blinks from the surveillance camera…
the paper handle from a pink cotton candy gets
trampled on…a parking valet counts small change
…the tide rolls out…an eyebrow is raised…spring
blossoms drift above bus flumes…I pretend to be
a bluebird pecking at the butterfly in her…a radio
clears its throat…a parking lot recalls its pasture
…both shoelaces are tied…pigeons flock to the
belfry…Monday drips like syrup…sand spins into
concrete…a whole forest learns to fox trot…&
everyday we wake up or we don’t.
　

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Copyright 2009 by Maurice Oliver. Rights Reserved.