Place a pack of pigeon pokers like a porcupine-- strips of spikes to stop the spread of shit across the sign. People look up at the arrows free from defecation, no birds dropping bombs on the directions to Penn Station. Else they'll go the other way as trains roll East from dock and trek across Long Island three more hours to Montauk.
46
45
The signs say no standing on poles down the street. But standing means sitting in the driver's seat. The rule's against cars occupying the road, not humans on legs in a statuesque mode. It tells of the car's, not the driver's position. And stopping your wheels needs D.O.T.'s permission.
44
In the museum surrounded by glass, eight solid pillars for plugging your ass. (hah) Set upon boxes, their polished grain surfaces softly betray vaguely inhumane purposes. Gentle sloped curves with their bases cut flush, spiked tips observed to be shaped like a brush. Grind them down, maybe, then wear them with pride, but as they are, baby, they'll stab you inside.
43
In the museum for mostly wood art where the work's fragile and may fall apart there is a wheeled little grey metal cart known as the petting zoo of extra parts. Well, they are mostly wood, obviously. There are some golden bits, as you can see. Even the least creative attendee knows that brass fasteners come from a tree.
42
Between wire, brick, and stone exercise yards, overgrown, cell nearby for Al Capone, population not well known, praying Jews could feel at home in a place to call their own, lit by lights that say "shalom", thus describes the guide headphone.
Subscribe via Atom
These poems are Avi's diary. You can email him at avi@invariablyhappy.com