I empty my trash can onto my desk,
because I heard it can be art. Liquid
green swabbing over my lists,
a swollen nail cums in my brain,
seven wrinkled one dollar bills in my wallet.

But the pile of lavished waste has a song for me:
it's in a metamorphic state, it's think
with boxes and hair chromosomes.

I find brown glass and slooshy about the beer droplets.
Swallow some, I guess.
Tastes like Wall Street pants.
I listen to drip-tapping and you're a fucking bitch,
Jester, with the New York Ska Jazz Ensemble.
Trying to hear the garbage speak or dance
or make me a sandwich.

I find bourbon to be the main ingredient in garbage juice,
an espresso cup as pulp.
Ice cubes are crispy corn bugle snacks.
Boats are wobble-weebles.
Alka-seltzer gives me licking sensations.
36 effervescent tablets are lime-flavored!
A plastic bag is getting horny for fruit snacks.
You owe us two hundred and forty dollars.

Outside, the streets are flooded with gasoline.
A squirrel drowns in a turkey breast lunchables.
A can of Diet Dr. Pepper has no head.

I go to the bathroom.
A delicious display of blood and vomit.
I can hear blue beats from the toilet seat.
Nice human feet, nice jalopies, nice wounded flesh scatterings.
Sometimes the tile floor makes a crucifix and Jesus Christ
finds my poop exhilarating.

I go to see the bathroom garbage.
Not much. Just recycled paper towels with herpes.
My ring finger, empty-nerved at the tip,
rubs into the liquid skin near my eye.
And I begin thinking about windmill blades.