Black spider spins 140 character thoughts
over the slacked mouth of a broken t-shirt cannon

announcing lo calorie diets,
and proto-apocalyptic mortgage gate refinancing.

Don’t plagiarize the hype, young spider;
yours is an office delicate, bent off spin, threadbare
          in a Chinese factory,
          wrapped in the finest silks quite known
                    to the round fat bottoms
                    of popular Pundits.

New web stretched wonders over wide to the world,
          patient hasty lies forging continuous
clock time coverage of new spider time narratives;

                    Barack Obama’s rented Kenyan childhood,
proto-Nazaiian sprinkler head, broken, bent, ripped into soil
scraping up dead bunnies and cat hair wrapped in spit and dust,
     minor clumps of skunked pew research cross-tabs
     and the Politico, printed.

*(
We are heading to be, now,
     only too too honey for the morning;

Dotted mt. dew forming frosty over steamed mourning rose petals,
               on: there: been: that: done.

You’ve lost me, Spider.
     Casting caffeine AmEx dreams over teabagged boats,
like a sack of pet pickles to the forehead.

In the Creator’s brand new, classic coastal town,
     lesbian children buy each other ice cream sandwiches,
     play hopscotch upon a patch of slippery eels;
             Old stump mother’s wear pizzicato aprons
        wash large spoons with their beautiful tongues
        and live inside the bellies of gigantic washing machines.

My own mother weaves marionette
     strings on an old broken loom,
          has found honey in rusted oil canisters.
  She broke her flower’s arm in a trip
               with falling, and a man named Josephine
            Appleseed, has bet me to differ.

    I am complacent enough as bubblegum
         is on subway tracks, with fields
         of almost melting popsicles attached
      by veins to my wife in Oregon.

Bella opens the bathroom door
   to wash goofy figurines.
She sits in a purple-plaid fizzled white tub
            soft grey, the tiles, with plastic pet people
            some floating, others sunk to the bottom.

Outside her window, an unhappy ocean is on fire
   and when it all burns up, which is all it will,
   there will only then be left the salt, and Mr.
            Gandhi will be happy, but he will be hungry.

(
Far off and long ago in a rural distance
   a plum light hangs large over dirt roads,
   as tow trucks towing other tow trucks
  drive past a young woman’s future grandfather

            Who takes a large bite of asparagus
                            and smiles despite his teeth.
                                                                                )

Nepotism, I have them same nipples, cute.

How many 16th century Parisian-style merchants
must I charm
to colonize my mother’s reunion barbeque?

French Canadians in their blue jeans,
wearing bell-bottom Heritage under a Tree of ferris Wheels,

in a pro-creative Park amongst the wooded clearings of Southern Maine,
reuniting under exile of Nova Scotian oral history.

Cobblers the sons of cobblers the sons of older cobblers,
bankers the mothers of bankers the mothers of younger bankers;
7 generations of Bachand mechanics.

Sweet Barbara, bequeathed maitre d’ of a proud familial arch.
And then,
Her son, A SENATOR!
Her nephew, A GOVERNOR!
Her grandson, A SENATOR!

SWEET HIGH TRAVESTY CRIME
AGAINST THE MERITOCRACY!!!!11!!

GRRRRRRRDIESDIESDIES
ANGRY!!!!!!111!!!!!!MOOOOBBBBBBBB!!!!!!111!!!!!!!!

My apologies to the Pitch Forks.
I will bank, I will bank.

Extremely large dogs are dressed like small horses,
   dancing Norwegian Waltz in a Jane Austen novel,
   exchanging cautious pleasantries and the phone numbers of dentists,

In a pet store, on an airplane,
   chasing a rabbit from cloud to sky, kisses on Jesus,
   ”Hello, good morning, welcome to my edgeless swimming pool.”

13 young daughters of tired French Diplomats
   piloting glass schooners to the center of the Mediterranean,
   above the ritualized mating habits of several large, legendary Sea Beasts,

Opening cardboard picnic baskets
   and removing chocolate covered strawberries,
   feeding each from mating Beast to mating Beast.

Extremely large dogs are dressed like small horses,
   with large red YoYos on 90 mile string,
   quietly plucking each young daughter off the top of the head.

13 young daughters of tired French Diplomats
   floating into water unconscious,
   transforming mysterious into handsome woodland sea nymphs,

Serenading their legendary Beasts
   with Mexican mariachi editions
   of monumentally righteous Metallica love songs,

On lutes and banjos and accordions;
   most wonderful whale song sung to a midnight moon,
   while legendary Beasts give legendary birth to legions of orchid sea plants,

Flowering into underwater blankets,
   upon which tired young nymphs lay rested heads,
   hold each other tight in underwater pillow talk,

Dreaming long of the earth and planes above.

I)
I married a woman named Baberaham Lincoln and we grew
     the same mustache,

moved to Ann Arbor in a Wooden Station Wagon
     listening to Funk Rock and Joe Piscopo
Spoken Word.

Spinning wheels, ’round and ’round, cross
coordinated dusky streets, literally littered
     with skateboarding gas station attendants—
those who speak naked testimonials

into inexpensive camcorders; their
Eyeballs in debt,
     praying on Sundays for adjustable rate public relations.

Reality is roadtripping
     through two-thousand and eight American televisions
     affixed via Satellite to brawny Beijing,

Broadcasting from atop the astroturf
     at the Center of Sport.

II)
We’ve spent an extra night or two by the strip mall
     hotel swimming pool,

under the shadow of Tiger Woods barefoot
     on the Euphrates, orchestrating
a public Telethon between Rival Teams
within our own delegation.

J. Harvie Wilkinson and Sonia Sotomayor,
     Babe and Me, in the pool with knee-high holy socks,
     racing via Segway from Lake Itasca to Ancient Carchemish,

Grabbing roadside water bottles
     from an elderly Wall*Mart greeter
insisting “God Hates FAQs,”

propping 8 Shepards under XMas lighting
     behind a formerly segregated lunch counter;
a Phelpsian Feat.

One World, One Dream,
until the River ran dry and we found our missing boots
     and then beat each other up.

III)
My nose is broken, my diamond teeth are bloody
     and I can no longer afford my Asthma medication.

But there’s more in the River,
     water once again in the River…

Old Babe and the Young Hawaiian, racing via foot once more,
     naked and wheezing under proud flown American flags,
          eating Apple Pies and Doughnut Sticks, knowing

River HOPE is a spring internal,
spilling over the top of the Keban Damn,
     descending until the leveed mouth of New Orleans,
wiping any anti-freeze from the shiny pavement,

)

Clean whistles by the twentieth Sunrise of January.