Hello Mr. Cento
by Shane Allison

I need a job today.

They raised the price of

Dreams every morning roundabout

Nine. I didn't mean for

It to happen as the

Man who can buy his

Cake buffed to a subtly

Numbing sheen falling from the

Ceiling in the delivery room

Of blindfolded violinists sponging

My sweaty stomach thru the

Arches of trite self-examination

Witnessed by flanked, short eyes

In another form of pussy

Feeling ever so American as

You eat blood, semen and

Shit in circles of shimmering,

White light sitting on the

Living-room floor watching Saturday

Morning clouds big enough to

Run across a Bourgeois idealist

That drove me into Barnes

& Noble two years ago

In the suddenly squeaky-clean

New York scene. Shock the

Shit out of people between

Two ideas. It was Oscar

Wilde after all who described

Your shoulders in the clouds

Or masses of flowers. Load

The walls held back in

An eternal pause of the

Local heavens' various fragments of

Flowers with warm, flowin' liquids

Of the imagination, which wipes

Across our moving brows to

Erase a glass coffin stifled

By roses to make the

Most terrible Gods lose weight

In a country of splendor

& High rain-dampened nostril

Hair leaning back away from

The hot water. Kissing sweetly,

Smooth & delicious flesh of

His feet until you reach

For me with your ass

Down around the end

Of each digit for hours.

And when you get here,

The first thing you do

Is strip, get down and

Empty the heart in Korea

Of what will see us

Through and I know that

Peace is soon coming as

If heaven cared looking out

The window for no reason

Except a throb through five

Seconds to spit out your

Semen with an eye for

Men to tickle and pull

Them and feel the public

Brush toward the toes to

Give it the butt of

Beowulf, the gism of Jesus,

The crotch of legions of

Men on their way to

Conquer lips closing over

Silky glands, brushing backs of

The arrogant toes I moan

And twitch with a pretty

Face, with my mouth like

Marbles or your cunt you

Have harbored under the kiddie

Potty up south in Greece in

1939 with a mild speech

Impediment eating yellow snow cones

Wherever he thrusts a

Handful of tan knuckles to

My face if I whirl

The whip faster and faster,

You turn on your back

Feeling the wire hire, the

Hairbrush, the wooden spoon

Inside a hundred different men,

But the needs of the

Heart to me, puts on

Heavy boots adorned with many

Golden, burly black men and

Truckloads of buttocks moving like

Palm trees, like a slow

Scent to the railroad from

The great north road, which

Curls up on the solid

Earth under the French horns

Of a November afternoon. A

Man in the rusty deadpan

Ends of space of my

Mouth has made a temporary

Language no great size while

You limped and feel no

Such a language.

What love is not easy,

But the Chippewa poem tells

Us my taste will not