Poemzzz

About The Circus Horse by Marc Chagall
There's only one place to start--the middle, of course--a place for starting near the end of the middle because in the middle of the muddled and muddy rainbow dirt of the circus ring there's this horse wot's been labelled with yellow paint balls and on the horse a whore in a child's prancing, dancing dress, so the whore looks like a cute wedding cake wot's turning into a dress, and she's reaching with muscular triceps for men with much larger biceps prancing along the power lines that hang and sizzle in the orangeorange sun that rides on the back of the side of the side-back of a fire-breathing pig wot's smoking a pipe and getting so big so big the painted jester dances a jig with his calves rippling with lemon, lime, and apricot spots while the creepy old fellow in a Louis XIV gown with grand old Uncle Sam stripes tries to tell you that yu're extra nice and wouldn't you like some candy, little boy?

Vapor Pressure
I'm all twisted up in here
coiled up on myself in here.
The kettle tin, my dear, is boiling my skin
till it peels off like old wallpaper.

You set me here on the stove
and let--inside the Litte Brat's kettle--me boil.

The kinetic transfer of energy--with ever-increasing entropy--
excites molecules of H2O, yields greater vapor pressure,
causes more molecules to fall up from the surface of the water puddle in the middle of the kettle.
In short--I boil inside these walls of branding tin
and my guts bubble and swell--
my lungs and thighs swell
I'm a runner on the line, feeling swell--
Let me out, with a whistle,
please
Let me burst screaming out of the
twisting, searing kettle tin walls
into the
miserably cool kitchen air.