SONNETS WITHOUT AN H, FOR KEVIN KILLIAN
Soaps for dinner, o never end, despair,
peel, expire, or multiply
but did Olympia Dukakis really play a transsexual
stoner landlady from outer space?
Look, Kevin, Mrs. Madrigal, cryptic
marquessa, groom a multi-
generational plot, baroque in a pixie
wig and momming a transplant
O license to rent, decrepit wife:
don't make me cascade from marvelous
peaks to an uncomfortable end, on a
mattress in Denmark. Candy says:
I'm an angel of a future decade, bearing good news
Surrender now, wimps!
So do you wanna live or do you
wanna funk all nite? A television
angel demands all, a watery
grave to sit on in queenly perpetuity
on Carroll Street, in piteous Brooklyn.
Will nobody palpate a decade into
its superfund site, or rise again
like Britney did, from 2007? A taste of
your lips on a karaoke mic, Kevin:
first poison, second paradise, in an anterior tense.
Don't stop Sylvester, nor a sure comeback
in a Scene kid swoop, mistaken for decadent eyes,
lips, tongue and piercings kind of
vibe, you know? You get me.
