Everything the Traffic Will Allow

by Bill Yarrow


there's more to life than poontang
but not when you're sixteen and
your hands are full of heavy breasts

at the six o'clock when the sky
and sea turn green, memory
in a pencil skirt walks in

midnight daiquiris, the lingerie
dawn, fishing for kisses: the bugles
call and sound like hounds 


baguettes in your pockets, a broomstick
in your jeans, you think of films
with canine themes

the vile politics of charity, the bloody
wonder of the sun, the earworm
still crawling the corridors of your skull

if you're in bed, get out
if you're sitting, stand up
if you're standing, walk around

dogs on leashes patrol the lawn
an eight-year old rubs the belly
of a beached blowfish to make it swell


stop staring at vacancy
accept the surrender value of your bonds
stop raising: go ahead and call

when get up from your stasis
investigate the trash: you may
find a rare Tonto thermos  

think, and then think better

consolidate your outstanding warrants
adjudicate your selfishness  

if you apply the paste of cohesion to the perforations
in your life, all that is written in the Golden Book
of Dust shall come to pass


when's the competition?
rather, when's not the competition?
every dry peeled apple eventually turns brown

feel, and then feel better
buy something homemade
forsake the autumn mist

if you're sitting, stand up
if you're standing, walk around
if you're walking around, walk toward something