[Wheels of Fortune, Arman, 1995]


The jiggle of juke box blight

fuddles  under the curdle

TV, a jingle-fest hung above

a bobble game of balls–

green skin, wood sky, fake shack

You put it to the corner pocket.

A stripe flirts to the hole,

pocking drop that robs the other

poker of the eight-ball win.


I’m a bitsy rodent rolling down

a subcutaneous bole, blackened cool,

mole-happy to be popped

underground (dangling sound still

shredding the ceiling).  Lane after

satiny lane, my only home.

This slow decline joggles me

to others bulking

in polo-pelted queues,

bowling and rumbling below a pyrex window.Play us more.

Drop quarters and we’ll run

to the station juggling for position,

smiling for favors. You stare

in and watch us fuss, reach a fond and filthy hand

to fling us up to shacked-up form–

culture in a Petri dish

only to b cracked.


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