My name ain’t Biggie, Eleanor Rigby, Or Slam-Windsor I don’t play frisbee And I sure ain’t a skin-flick financer. That’s your mirror, With that bird-crap visor From an airstrike of monkeys on spin-cycle hang-gliders. You ask “What’s the weather?” I reply with a sinus cold sneeze, My umbrella’s dripping And smells like old cheese. He brought a parasol stitched from a juggler’s fleece, Now we’re sipping hot rain in a puddle of bacon grease. When you’re in The Weather, You’re in a henhouse that’s stagnant, Tar on your feet, corn feed stuck on your beak. Feathers stickin’ like magnets. Traffic cones circle my bed like dancers— I bottle up dreams And lease ‘em to pranksters Who drive into fenders In traffic like hamsters Spinnin’ in place In a maze made of used Pampers. I thought I was named for a mythic eclipse, But it turns out my name’s from a bumper that slipped An old station wagon with two left wheels, An obscure joke On a Taco Bell meal. Not profound, just a smudge on a map, I’m the hiccup in history The burp in the gap. So rename me after a prank gift buyer, Or the kid who sells incense made from junkyard tires. Or maybe I’ll pick one Right after I bank-rob This Chase branch With a wrench and a fake job. Then I’ll bounce to Belize Or a beach in Marseille, Grow beets in a tent With a DJ named Ray. For now I sell sketches of frogs with toupees Out a rent-controlled crawl space Where the lightbulbs delay. Your name should appeal to women with boots Made of fruit roll-ups and cinnamon roots. They hand-feed chocolates in wedding attire To blindfolded sloths Who can’t read a flyer. They write names backward with soap on their thighs To remember which planet their horoscope implies. Oh how divine those cul-de-sac queens, With wigs full of glitter and hair gel dreams. I found her swimsuit top in my garden hose She used it to filter her Trader Joe’s. She had an off switch I found it by chance, It was hiding beneath her collection of ants. I made a deposit Right there in her lap She charged me in tokens Then gave me a nap. What’s God and the Devil’s intramural fee For debating what’s legal to name me could be? I’m worth my weight in broken kazoo reeds And expired coupons for psychedelic bee feed. Inactive blender, active vendetta, I’m the awkward descendant of feta and meta. Mediterranean cousin with a jellyfish rash, Mailin’ a head in a paper bag to my mom with a birthday sash. Pagans be scrapin’ each other with spatulas, Worshippin’ Netflix and smokin’ tarantulas. I restore the remorse of a horse in suspenders, Patch up a killer with Crayolas and blenders. Helmet zone, I roam with a pad and apron Carve my thoughts in foam insulation. Kitchenware’s vicious, the fridge got opinions, Covered in feathers and pigeon dominions. Petition for peace signed in mustard and glitter, Contestant confessed while eatin’ a critter. I questioned the answers, the answers confessed, Then a Spanish sportscaster pronounced me in jest. There’s fabulous skiing in cardboard apartments, Assassins with accents defendin’ compartment lunch boxes full of antique flan, While Alaskan drag queens wave magic wands. Don’t ask me, I’m wearin’ grass skirts with a bib, Crashin’ into strangers while I fake ad-lib. Here’s cash for your rug burn and coconut debris, I’m cleanin’ my ceiling with the inlay of a Jermaine Dupri CD. This chowder’s imported from mystery zones, Veal from a city where they worship bones. I battle bland rappers in Band-Aid wraps, Leave ’em half melted on laundromat mats. Incredible bulk in a polyester toga, Smokin’ school chalk in a Ford in Saratoga. I club you with Hannibal’s cannibal jaw Right before I give your barber the mandible claw. I’m the bellhop tossin’ your socks like dice, They tip me in coupons and legal advice. No pre-warnings just a pie in the face and a neighbor who lives adjacent feeling my bass. I say there’s a bomb but it’s actually yarn, And the doctor’s in boots made of margarine arms. Gold sold bold before I was born, Norton’s still hoarding his coupons for porn. File savers for aisle gazers tryna save face with the barbershop razors. Washcloth defense system Osh-Kosh felon inmates moshin’ to Elvis listening to homemade cassette tapes. If you brought grass, let’s rinse the utensils, Scrub the cupboards with multicolored pencils. If pot smoke disturbs you, brace for a scar There’s fistfights in Hell with a three-string guitar. Kiss my lapel while I bait a gazelle with a pellet gun, singin’ “Highway To Hell!” Melodramatic, wrapped in my habit, A rabbit throws fists with an acid reign bandit. I labeled the caption with rose colored glasses and served it on stage to an addict in a wagon. Actions explode like kabuki themed words, The waiter got tipped in transmittible germs. I cater to poets with tremors and urges Preservin’ the mushy, the dusty, the purges. I’m here for the freaks At the Monday service churches with tattoos and purses of space-bending urges. (Synthesizer solo)
