BLACK MAILBAG TUESDAY

You boil a lobster
as quickly as possible,
red & black miniskirt,
knife to its neck-hinge,
body-claws sunk
in the hard water,
legs lovely
as an ice-creamed
vanilla swirl.
You smile unsteady.
I'm going down to the subway
with a flamethrower.
Take the thick bands
from the largest pinchers;
melt the butter, let red & black
melt onto floor, pole-eyed dead
armor-clink onto plate.
I'm going down to the subway
with a trashbag full of band-aids.

You put your name into the machine.
The machine puts its name into you.
You remove your favorite shoes.
You will never remove this not-you
that is a section of the first & final you.
Step off the smaller weight-scale,
onto the runway larger.
This is as close as we can get a system
to collapsing outward into infinity.
I'm going down to the subway
with a grenade launcher
full of burnt red roses.
You put your not-life back into nature.
Nature puts its not-death into
you. You're alive & can't be.
I'm going down to the neon subway
in my grey-soaked underwear.

You pour the steaming water from silver
on the dry blossoms, and they expand
in the time it takes to give you a long
dragging kiss against the cutting board.
I'm going down to the subway station
with a laughing flame-thrower.
Time passing will never feel
this way again. Images will never hit
so soft & plain, but will hit harder.
The long wooden spoon
moves a sausage in butter; a bluejay
perches on a flowered sill beside
the channeling sink. I'm going down
to the subway with my bluest clothes on
grass-fire.