Dream, who is my cousin shtupping in the Laundromat?
I’ve relocated to the upper reaches of poverty so I’m abused by this message.
Dream, what is an epileptic schlong?
I’m not sure if I’m the chicken or the soup but I approve of this message.
Dream, when is a traffic stop a poetry reading?
I’m working on having my butt kicked from one end of this country to the next: so my tuchis approves of this message.
Dream, where is darkness on vacation?
I tried chewing on a politician once. It didn’t help, but he approves of this message.
Dream, why is the cloudy day leaning on my bedroom window?
Because every party needs a pooper.
(After Terrance Hayes’ a Gram of &s)
Be it Chamberlain, Disney or Whitman, all Walts
are welcome to the exhibition as long as they are patrons of the dark arts.
I am sorry but what you’ve mistaken for starlight is coleslaw.
Would you care for some on your painting? Too much salt
in your water colors could give your brush high blood pressure. No need to be tart.
Daddy-o over there seems to dig that woman with the wart
sunbathing in her underoos. In the line for the cabernet, the last
shall be first and the first shall be last.
The museum’s elevator music? Tala:
a south Asian hand clap where the palms are sand script canvases. Watt
did you say? You like to snort your imagination through a straw?
I think it’s time to quench this evening’s star.
David Mills is the author of two books of poetry The Dream Detective (a small-press bestseller) and The Sudden Country (a book-prize finalist). His work has appeared in Ploughshares, Jubilat, Fence, Callaloo, The Pedestal Magazine, Cover Magazine and Brooklyn Rail. He has received fellowships from Breadloaf, NYFA, Queens Council of the Arts and ArtsLink. Mills has an MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College and an MA in creative writing from New York University.