birds.i.view

the thought of puking bile
covered chunks of expertise
in my children's
hungry mouths
motivates me

opening their doors
in the evening
with all i've gathered
throughout the day
wriggling
in my throat

"hello son,

hungry?

have some
cunning stew

daughter,

here's some gooey-soft
pornographic
porridge"

my eldest
hunched
over the kitchen
table gobbling
a can of
thick and hearty

after awhile
the pace would quicken
and every thirty seconds
they could fill
a bowl
with their loving
father's fertile
mind

first
they must learn
to come and get it
out his mouth

his jaws
normally
ripping the heads
off worms

slack

in that
they could die
falling out of the nest
picked up by a kind
teacher
or possibly a priest

picturing
each of my children
huddled in a pinch
of yellow grass
shivering featherless
in a shoe box

all their chunks in vain
as every bird they'd sheltered
ever knew
its their father's scent
strangely refusing
proven
formulas

- w.alt burns

Nov 1983 Luke Skywalker And Princess Leia: What’s Next After Jedi?

prepubescence
was a stack of penthouse magazines
at a yard sale strummed from heaven, my first,
its hard, I'll never get that first yard sale
fix but I try and the pimple fucked seventh grader
amongst my dirty eared friends who feigned companionship
for my pirated copies of the first two Star Wars
Nov. 1983 was it Dynamite or Hot Dog?
my parents worked at RCA (in accounting)
watched Star Trek and Seems Like Old Times
Carmel/caramel - it didn’t matter
but 9 to 5 shaped my ideal woman
Jane Fonda's legs - Dolly's tits - and Lily Tomlin-
Laugh-In.
he stuttered "how much?" red faced
pushed three dollars over and we crawled into the underground
fortress of weirdwayne's house who still crapped in his pants at school
legendary (add 3d20) for his stink
he'd wait until all six of us were snug under the plywood ceiling
to rip one fierce. we'd glower as if to say "not now
we're reading literature"
his mother called me the devil once
because I played He-man figures with her son and Skeletor
was influencing me to mindlessly
make Battle Armor He-Man doggie style Teela while Evilyn
got it from Cringer. whatever.
my mom came and yelled at her to love God and my mind explored
those musty pages of milk for months until hot days of rain soaked pages
stuck together. one of the guys, the goalie from the Cosmonauts,
had to say why he thought the pages were that way
so we threw them in the dumpster and I had to go without for a month
or longer. time's a trilogy when you're eight.
until sifting for gold, I found three mags in that same dumpster behind Rexall
we hid them in my greenhouse turned junk room underneath
some pristine issues of 'Good Living'
until one day the leak in the roof was discovered and those copies were trash too
and not one time did we know what to do with ourselves.
two years later, I found a blank
tape. the label in blue ball point ink read "High Anxiety" but it turned out
to be a porn mom and dad had for some reason probably confiscated it from…
oman just worked that one out and sometimes writing is just for
oneself.

- w.alt burns

america’s been around so long

my flowerbeds are in no more violation
of hoa code
than your cement trucks parked on the curb
america's been around so long mainly because its
early in the phone book
prank calls Afghanistan Foundation Repair
jealous America? behemoth-strong your central
nervous system denies prayer in schools
as more kids try crawling back in the pond
the latest Depression funded by pills and plasma
25 dollars for three hours
yet impotent
bunks with mi esposa twaddles her pregnant veins
coos bud ice lullabies on the periphery of
cotton soft hazed skies
we burned out in the south
caught lust for means to the ocean and change
a fat red sharpie squeals the line up the East
a net gain
where the old tugboat that brought us here
ferries us away
hop scotching from hell

- w.alt burns

twelve yellow taxis and trunk loads of armadillo purses

twelve yellow taxis
and trunk loads
of armadillo purses
in line at ! customs
entering the quiktrips
of the united states
two silver bullet suitcases
and its check out time
damn! the settlers
know their Tuesday nights

a cheap imitation
Matamoras marionette
lifeless yet voyeuristic
my hollow
trunk eager my
fingers
knit those strings back up to God
for the sum of two
egg rolls and a frozen coffee

why some stupid curly headed kid
had to ask his grandma to bring
back something from Mexico
I don't know
but I'd liked it better
if he'd just flipped
a switch
and lit up a home
in Guatemala.

- w.alt burns