The experience of X
©1995 Arlen Lazaroff



©1994 Arlen Lazaroff

Arlen Lazaroff

The pot-head farmer who grew all his own stuff 
gave a very large donation to the Vietnam Veterans Nation 
and the one pumping fuel at the corner station 
said it gave him visions of flag patterned plastic bags
full of green stuff from money trees
while the one selling insurance at Security Mutual Life
said it gave him a new lease on oil wells in Mentone 
( the throbbing heart of Loving county, Texas)
and everyone agreed the phone tree
was something devised to give rise to Ma Bell
using two dixie cups with a string
attaching the two touch-tone Siamese twins
from one end of the paint covered globe to the other

and that giant can of red enamel labeled "Cover the Earth"
was seen as a menace from the communist east
where according to the almanac of the John Birch Society
the advancing goo would separate us from Christian piety.

Have pity for Tibetan monks in cloudless basement cities.
Show mercy for spacemen earthed by jealous princess Circe 
for these women with short haircuts and combat overalls
are advancing on white men's homes
and coloring their walls.

The acid heads who rot their flesh in technicolor dreams
cause liberals to shake their heads and conservatives to scream.
The skunks squashed flat in the middle of the road 
are of a whiter stripe
than humanists who deny their god a column in the Daily Gripe.

Time for Frozen Zen Countdown
when the bombs don't drop 
they just go up in hyperspace 
and join the satellites.

Doctor Hindenburg von Zeppelin considered this phenomenon 
a reversal of all we were taught
so he told academics the epidemic 
of contrariness should be stopped

and Anita of Florida's long lost campaign 
convinced that acid rain 
was god's punishment for men loving men 
(as opposed to men hating men, 
as if they could really see the difference)
appointed the latest conservative radio spokesman 
for Local Orange 321's advertising job
hoping the goddess would appease the god
instead of two gods getting together and making thunder
because it was assumed she'd really like the jingle 
and it would raise her estrogen level.

Imagine all those baby gods 
having to take the bus to freedom school
where the nurse dispenses condoms 
with their daily cartons of orange juice 
and expectations give way to recitations
of primary sexual education.
Boys shouldn't hit girls and the reverse is also true.
We should learn to share our toys
and play nice in the cosmic sandbox.

Time for Frozen Zen Countdown.
The cans of juice don't mix in the blender.
Dead fruit on the highway splatters your fender.

The pot-head farmer who grew all his own snuff
sneezed so hard he shook the phones 
off all the trees on the planet.
Along every highway telephone poles grew in T shapes 
and were strung together with lines
across which frantic communication 
splattered the red and orange paint
on sidewalks and lawns of every nation

and the sweat of war
still wet on the memory of all the vets
involved in the annual plastic bag fund drive 
rained like bombs on mushroomed fields 
and they flared up one by one 
asking how's the puppet business?"

Time for Frozen Zen Countdown 
like snow on the roofs of our heads.
Play duck and cover from the bombs under school desks and beds.

Maybe if we think good thoughts the bad will go away.
Frozen Zen Countdown will eliminate
the need for Judgement Day.



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