the spray stain of blood
and brains on the window pane
reminded him of home
penis popcorn
family apples
poisoned
or not
haunt the empty
bowls collecting dust
in cold or hot
cluttered rooms
inside your head
where you reside
unable to find
the exit
the stairwell
to take you down
to your heart
your gut
the bowels clenched
against your cock
swelling
out of control
locked out
of the basement
elevator stuck
on the top floor
till the power goes out
nobody knows
where it goes
when olive oil
pokes her head out
of the medicine cabinet
maybe you blow
into the roots
to sweeten the apples
or a black rose
certainly fertilize
the family tree
more branches to prune
dirt to sift
you dig
fill the bowls
the bowels
your cluttered mind
juggling game
times and deadlines
heedless as bluto
or brautigan still dead
and headless
on the floor
of shelly duval’s
apartment
his willow stick
fishing pole
charcoal tipped
from roasting wieners
like the glistening
one she watches you
pull by hand
like popeye opening
a can of spinach
before it’s too late
before the dreams
and the day-shift
writhe to coagulate
clot and dry into
one two three
strikes you’re out
no balls no skin
no legacy only this
pile of parchment
and maggots etching
a hemingway end
identical parties
for the bald twins
bawling out
wimpy for stealing
freaking the fucking
trout out
about discovering
love cannot be
caught nor won
written into a yes
because love just is
until it’s not
and how your throbbing
cock got involved
is the old wolf
in sheepskin
but wolves need to eat
kids to take care of
their nibbling and nipping
pups pawing and yipping
prowling the woods
like dick howling for willard
to pull in another
bowling trophy
to pull off another strike
pick up the spare
in that final frame
pull the trigger
kill the light
and end the poem
the bat-boy’s feast
this all-you-can-eat
maggot ball
step up to the plate
and swing away
one two three
strikes your out brawling
balling and crawling again
in that old ball game
batter-up load-’em-up
number forty-four
let her roll nothing
doing no score
what is that stench
you have no stomach
for you hurry to the shutters
let some light in and watch
your step it seems
like somebody spilled
a bowl of tapioca
pudding on the floor
but it sounds more like
egg shells as you cross
the room panicked
for air an open window
you can only imagine
the smell of silence
ringing in your ears
drowned out by
the roar of hundreds
thousands
of blue-black flies
buzzing still
nobody’s home
for Gatz and Richard Brautigan
