Chinese warrior monks eat Marco Polo pizza in dishwasher aprons
debating mastadons from Mars to all-night Babylonian oompah music
while off-duty patrolmen nonchalantly play mafia shrooms and shoot-em-up
video games waiting for a slice
and Hieronymous Fresh works on his translation of the lemon jelly donut
into linear b like every archivist from the Pleiades to Alpha Centauri
and a junkyard dog named Iron Fist drinks Mint Romneys with velvet gloves
and a dry cravat remembering how despite it all the Monte Cristos were good.
It was enough to wax nostalgic for getting bushwacked by a tire iron
in the back of a Parisian chop suey joint by men with too much Frenchness.
The clown-nanny wonders why the children are all frightened
and why he can't get service in his hairshirt and order mock turtleneck soup to go,
while the golden thumb piano of justice plays for quarterback Tim Tebow's
elk antlers glimpsed before they retract into His Magnificent Skull.
The organ donor monkey dressed like a Peter Lorre cancer survivor on trial
wants spellcheck now too but not on spellcakes, for his memoirs, that he calls
"Pimping God, the Spanish Johnny Story, or How I Learned the Long Con”
while his pasta grows cold like unrequited love or certain hands in poker.
