High Jinks
Matthew Klane

2

 

        High Jinks           The rites of surprise,

piripipi! popcorn thighs.

I see

You sick little,

shit-kicking,

juvenile

delinquent,

lovelorn,

jungle skunk.

You drink

ink

from the bottle,

think—a thought—of Trotsky’s daughter,              

jerk yr licorice syrinx.                    

 

    The Mercury Coyote          Boy, hotspur,

corduroy,

hurtling and incendiary powwow!

like a meteor on a motorbike.

I see

You swerve to avoid

a herd of cows.

Moooo.