Snowman Toward the City

Snowman coming down from the mountains
driving a late-model Oldsmobile,
swerving behind other vehicles,
spray of dirty snow-water coating his car.
Becoming uncomfortably warm,
his ass slushy in the seat, still he drives.
He wants Marlboros from 7-11,
street noise and grit, he has grown tired of high valleys
and the cold clear still air.

Tops of the mountains hidden in thin gray clouds,
their misty arms try to stop him. Trees whisper
under loaded limbs, calling to him: but he drives.
He remembers something as he passes a slow van,
then it's gone, a thought of the ocean and having salt,
of floating over the earth.
He doesn't have salt now and the tires squeal,
it's urgent, he's melting as he drives toward the city.

-------------------------------

Dear Mr. Undertaker

Please mis-button my shirt
and make the jacket a size or two too small.
Diapers instead of pants,
and stuff my penis
for a beautiful bulge.

I'll need body-piercing,
a thick brass rod
going in one side of my head
and out the other.
Please etch tattoos all over.

Pull down the corners of my mouth
and put in a lit cigarette
labeled "The Eternal Flame."
On my feet the latest sneakers,
making sure they're covered with logos,
their rubber formed into shapes
like cake icing.

I would appreciate a sport coffin,
an aerodynamic wing on the back
and "Turbo" on the sides,
with ads for the sponsors of my death:
"Powered by Cancer,"
"XTreme Heart Disease"
and "Stroke: Ticket to the Beyond!"

Add bumper stickers:
pro- and anti-abortion,
and others proclaiming people and ideas
left, right and center
no better than Nazis.

Cash out any assets I have left
and stuff the bills in the casket,
visible to grievers.

All of this should be paid for
with high-interest credit cards
and defaulted, then bankruptcy declared
with none of its stipulations complied with.

Weld the coffin shut after the viewing,
lower me to music chosen by
the least-interested philistine
and bury me deep.

When onlookers have gone
and I can relax
I'll give the devil a long hug,
squeeze out,
percolate up through the ground,
emerge naked and new
and begin being nice to people.

-------------------------------

A World Globe Looks Out the Window

I was placed near a window
where I could look out at myself--
my bushes, my backyard grass,
a bit of my sky and cloud,
my little birds,
telephone wires and power lines
so my people could chatter and watch TV.
A newspaper flapped into view,
apples on sale, hybrid cars popular,
conflicts continuing,
arguments getting uglier, deaths mounting.
The paper blew away, the sun went down,
I could feel my Afghanistan
grating against my Iran,
my Congo slumping under.
Too many pus-filled maladies
always getting poked with sticks,
I needed to be a philosopher
but hadn't heard from God in a while,
I slept and dreamed I jumped orbit
to see new sights but none would have me,
so I found a dark corner and circled.
When the sun came up I forced myself to carry on,
crying seawater, helping one thing at a time.