Monkey confused by 21st century

strikes a pose in front of the camera faces,

flings dung into the everyday parade

and brays at all the talkytalk gibbering

in front of him. Small camera faces

obscure their pale skin from him

and how wide their bodies float

around them in weird yellows and greens

which are not even the color of asses.

Monkey confused by 21^st century

picks up another ice cream cone fallen

into his noble territory, scans again

all the sunlit world and masturbates

because he has to.

At the house punk show

Chaos swims about in good-natured riffs

into everyone’s ears—all my touchie-feelies

are full-alert, acknowledging the event’s airborne nature.

I’m danced on all sides by sweaty shornheads

and mushroomers, their giddy eyes begging

the music to live forever. Recycling bins, donated art,

the most coiffed notes of passion-aggression

about the rice milk—the co-op sings

into the poplar-heavy Memphis night

and all our souls rejoice in the name

of the Moving Feet and the Moving Heart. Amen.