Alfred Jarry's Toothpick
An iron gate shudders in the wind.
Behind a cottage, the bleating of young goats.
A woman in a black veil passes by.
She languidly chews her fingernails.
The cosmos of Alfred Jarry.
We are taking turns, Jarry and me,
riding his bicycle in the farmyard.
Jarry wants all information on contemporary
uses for simply constructed sawhorses.
He's sweaty from so much exertion,
confesses, The last stranger I kissed
was foaming at the lips... perhaps Tupsy.
On a short video from Jarry's backpack,
a diamond-glittery woman with a dancer's body
and lipsticked-black nipples
hand-mixes tomb ashes with perfume.
We absolutely know, Jarry smiles,
know that office clerks are allowed
to drink a ration of two cups
per day of cow slobber.
Jarry explains Munch, Rubescent clouds
naked women, wild-desire frolics,
and the tardy arrival of texts
on assorted methods for bleeding the infirm.
Nicely marbled, finger-thick paper.
Three skinny coyotes stand mute and still
at a hundred yards range... watch Jarry
pedal in ever-smaller circles.
We also like the gentle opening of flowers,
the ever so slow pulse the dead have achieved,
tomb-ebony river stones curated in tea cups.
Jarry tumbles in a tangle with his bicycle.
Muddy water flows from one of the handlebars,
He shrieks, Merdre! Merdre! Merdre!