Written by Phillip Woodruff
end of the world (as seen by a stray dog who doesn’t it’s the end of the world)
(this poem is dedicated to wayne gilbert, my friend and teacher, who taught me the joy of reading, writing and speaking poetry)
perhaps this is a poem
or ancient prophecy echoing thru the ether
or page three hundred and three of the g.e.
refrigerator repair manual
or too much caffeine
too much ambition
perhaps i’m walking the block
in high tech shoes of direction and destination
or maybe i’m just spinning the earth with my feet
this might be september
and the moon is shaped like a riddle
too big to smash with a hammer
this might be a fishbowl
and i’m just another fishy citizen
working in a fish stick factory
i eat and shit and work
work and shit and eat
and then pray for god to come and clean the water
this might be the sticky afterbirth
or the moment of climax, or the wink
of a lover’s eye
in a faded blue buick with steamed up windows
and young spirit waiting to enter
the motel called mother
this might be a daytime tv talk show
this might be a keystone cops movie
or maybe both
grainy black and white
big hat, billy club
rescue of the whispering, whimpering mr and ms damsel
tongue tied to the railroad tracks of tv guru voodoo
this might be a snow globe
and i should feel foolish
for not believing in fairytales
this might be candy-hopscotch-doo-dah-la-la mountain
where happiness glows like a crack-pipe cherry
where catfish swim with dog packs of dolphin
grapevines sing songs of festival wine
and all the spy satellites hold hands and twinkle
together
this might be a motor-home graveyard
flat hills of empty shells and grey weather
dead center of humdrum
where hummingbirds forget how to hum
and drop dead
this might be trick photography
or the rare occurrence of natural magic
behold the mighty onion
a gallery of curtains
unwarp the mummy from the mummy and wah-lah
no more universe
perhaps there’s another universe next door
that looks and smells and shakes just like this one
except no one there sings songs
about onions (let’s go!)
this might be leap year
and all the leap frogs are leaving this world
to orbit some other mud puddle
bum around in limbo
snuggle up in candy-colored god clusters
get too heavy with philosophy and fall down
tomorrow it will rain frogs
this may seem crazy
but this might be someone else’s fever dream
and i’m sleeping in the wrong head
this might be the day before i die
and i’m here to cast the first stone
to fill my coffin with novocain
comic books and last minute field goals
perhaps all of this could be or should
be or once was
long ago
all i know is
i misspoke, tried to sing a choked
bit my tongue so hard it made me cry
and i can’t see anything very clear
perhaps
this is a poem
Text © Phillip Woodruff
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