Three Poems

Craig Kite

My color keeps killing its God again

My anger keeps killing its president
My red shoots two Corinthians
On 5th Ave and nails Protestant
Vote Down in the wrists
Keeps killing its dad
Wants whatever billionaires have
My green pukes envy
On the shoes of drunk hotel
Where conflict of interest sleeps
Both its sons have slicked back hair

Corpses’ corsets orbits Massachusetts
Where Romulans did Obamacare first

My color keeps killing its God again
Turns my baby Jesus blue with booze
My black eye won’t let me believe again
My gold turns my shower head to nightmare
Turns my male gaze into a hoard
My white went to the beach

And came back with pink
My grey went to Russia
And came back with a ghost

The world is just his nightmare now

In an old man’s dream he is surrounded by everything he can’t understand, like what appears to be young men everywhere in tights. Worse yet, the young men all causally refer to their tights as skinny jeans, causing all the cogs inside the old man’s bald skull to gnash. He pinches his arm in attempts to wake himself but finds that he is already awake and the world is just his nightmare now. The old man’s head actually explodes. Can you imagine the kind of crisis that would cause a man’s head to actually explode? The swift evaporation of his solid archetypes. Fond expressions sliding off of faces. The shuffling of his landmarks and the pressure to bite his tongue?

By the time I build my mind palace
The foundation will rot
Time grant me wisdom
For knowledge is capricious


Life in my apartment 

I have a billion plastic grocery bags

Under my kitchen sink

This time next year
There will be 2 billion plastic grocery bags
Under my kitchen sink

I can never throw them away
I love them all
They are my precious

They come bubbling out at me
Every time I reach under there
For something more useful
Something less disposable
Like a gut wrench
Or some Drano
Or some All Purpose Cleaner
Anything I might drink
To make my mind less dirty
And backed up

They come bubbling out at me
Saying use me
use me
use me
Just like I say to the muses
Living in my walls
Who only ever come out
To ask me for my cigarettes

I am a useless plastic grocery bag
Under my kitchen sink
And God is a bearded fuck
Drinking a bottle of Drano

Three Poems