letter from Elmer

my dearest alphabet kids,

 

by the triangular breasts of Euclid’s mistress!

 

there’re flying grim-gimmicks nesting in my brain garden again.

they slurp the red from the roses and scratch the black off of the crows,

and, before you can lick the icing off of your confusion,

they’re gone, and, so are all the colors and shades that make this blue-domed

flophouse planet bearable.

 

my dingle-eyed doctor says I’m depressed with a side of delusional.

he gave me little pills that turn my smirks to smiles,

and fashion my tears into dimples.

I hate him. I hate my meds.

they could turn a steel rod erection

into a quadriplegic pancake.

tried to make my wiener a little wheelchair

out of carrot sticks and cucumber slices.

poor pathetic pee-popper just laid there looking sad.

 

next moon, I buried them pills in the trash.

all the raccoons went bald, but I felt better.

 

then, just like that Icarus kid crashed into the sun

with them new wings his daddy made him,

I crashed into a big fiery ball of happy.

painted my face red, painted my body yellow,

started a bonfire in the living room

and tossed in everything that irritated my mind-skin.

 

everything was groovy,

and every groove was thingy,

and I danced golden bars,

and sang silver linings

into the musical fabric of God’s

glorious beard.

 

then,

by the sore n*****s of Mother Cerberus!

 

the grim-gimmicks came and sucked my color wheel

until everything became clear.

 

clarity is the enemy.

seeing things clearly; colorless and untickled

is what turned Picasso blue and made Van Gough

slice his ear off.

 

it might even be what jingled Judas’ jangle

back when Jesus sandle-padded the sands

of earth.  

 

I need my colors back,

but I don’t want to stare at old Doc Dingle-eye’s

douchey ‘told you so’ face.

 

so, I’m going to eat me one of them bald raccoons,

see if he’s got enough medicine to color up my world again.

 

if not, I’m taking off my skin,

and mailing to the government for research.

 

I bet they could use my magic.

bet they would understand my genius.

 

maybe they could even nuke those grim-gimmicks,

and stop all this damned clarity that keeps us all

so horribly grounded.

 

see you when the Aztecs come home!

until then,

remember why turkeys gobble.

because they’re turkeys.

 

your old pal,

Elmer

 

P.S. don't send help! send cash! 10s and 20s, unmarked.

Reviews

[Emily B]

the computer ate my review

which wasn't really a review. I was just saying how I liked this. And I think you should tell Elmer not to send his magic off to the govament (that's how they say it in Tennessee). There isn't enough magic in the world anymore. Tell him not to sell it at a yard sale either. He should probably hang out on his front porch and fly it like a kite. So we can all enjoy it.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Elmer has seen clarity in his old age. This is a brilliant attack at everything we hold dear.