In companion with the exhibition: Jonathan Butt and Mernet Larsen

by Alan Gilbert

The only naps I take are in the morning
after a night spent choking on stars.
Sometimes people go missing;
other times itís me.
Still, itís a lonely life for being so crowded,
or else it takes a club member
to get you in.
Each backyard or nearby field
contained a small oil well guarded
by a dingo wearing lopsided bunny ears.
Inside, you can hear the sound of crickets chirping,
as talk show hosts interview hospice workers.

On the table is a box of disposable gloves
used to serve cafeteria food.
Deckhands dodge a wildly swaying mainsail
while paralyzed from the neck up
after long days at the office
stacking wooden pallets.
In archery class,
I badly overshot every target,
and generally stumbled onto the ecstatic,
just as itís anything except charming to answer
the door naked and waving a piece of bacon.

(Originally published in Late in the Antenna Fields [Futurepoem, 2011].)

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