LBPBG: Jon Version

the wind is a strange freak, now.

cavity cat-fight in a canine
tooth, I press leaves onto
my caramel apple like corn
on a cob. I hide slugs in the
candy corn, to steal away salt.
I can declare certainty, for all
time, in Luke Skywalker and
Jim Kelly and jack-o-lanterns.

fall’s pretty, sorta, if
you block it out. leaves
like gothic Murakami,
little veiny faces squinting
plunging into void with jaundice.

fall’s
fucked up,
fire hearth and
football. freaky-deaky
wind with a
bow in her hair and a
bulge in her pants plays
popsy-pumpkin with punks,
hiding beneath the bleachers,
waiting for whimsy like Godot.

I read Sharon Olds in the concrete
steps of a library so I can feel
that devil clawing up inside,
steaming against my hoodie.

I look on, like a relic, staring at a world
drenched in sepia rainbows, wondering
which button gets me back

to black and white.