We were born just off center
in the middle of a piano land
genetically tailored as embryos
to prefer zoot suits and flip flops.
No talk from the mind will spawn
a shiny toy pulled from the mouth
like a wisdom tooth
or a leased sun for a spotlight.
We are high on lowbrow brass buttons,
a pillow case filled with expended machine gun cartridges,
a dozen bicycle tires blended into aged scotch
and a cursory glance at a Supergirl comic book.
My twin says we staged a selling event
to empty attendees’ pocketbooks,
woodlots, recycling bins full of pop bottles
and all the “Oh’s” uttered this century.
We were created to explain a mystery.
Created as twins for the parallel processing
of rational numbers over infinity.
What shit head thinks he can program god?
We figured a whiff of honey coated almonds
attracts bees almost as well as spilled soda pop
and how a nickel will extend through the end of a year
as long as the horns rise on the buffalo head.
My twin suggests we pluck reckless lovers’ moans
like feathers from a freshly killed chicken
in order to clean plaque lined veins and arteries
while balancing sexagenarian blood vials on Tigger’s tail.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney