Plank

A giraffe riding shottie in red Voltz Wagon Bug
would be captured so high above the concrete
camouflage of Interstate 95. Yes. Would be cap-
tured passing the blunt to none other than Oscar

the Grouch, who by steel wastebin top was in lack
of any brighter ideas, replacing both airbag and wheel
in attempt to steer? Yeah, Donald Trump–that might
have been the self-same, neon green-crack punch year

that I myself chopped all my bridges and just jumped ship.
Just to clear the air and perform my own very own mad-
hatted nut-cracker stunt–though the sea so many leagues
below the drift of any Ivy smelt not of seaweed but blacktop

and asphalt.

The very asphalt on which some lesson underground
might have been learned had I remembered, well,
after the ground stopped to swell, to remember. Hello, hello!,
Olé, olé!, and yeah, nebular is all that’s to be recalled

after your Blackbox has been hit by boom
and pierced by some helical tooth of a narwhal
to be stomached for two half-burnt pancakes
or one fine piece of post-modern post-art…

For the next three years each day and night
I sat down on the same invisible whoopie cushion
and mostly failed to shrug off my hometown’s sneers
while hitting my head against Kafka’s The Castle

like the K. I had, so prophetically, become