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His astrological sign is wieners and beans
His rising sign is a twisted rainbow galloping through the cup of his broken liver
He sneezes in retrograde and his nose apologizes
His first house wraps presents and burns them
His second house is a sex worker
splurging on late-night poutine while six Mount Rushmores watch and drool
His fingers are his third house
And his hands are an entire elevator of emotions with rats chewing on the cables
jiggling like lures
like a mating dance
like a forgiven butterly hovering over leftover steak in someone’s bedroom after closing time
His fourth house is a Las Vegas unicorn
addicted to glowing lassos
His fifth hasn’t stepped on a bug in decades
His sixth is drinking vodka out of a penthouse dog dish
His seventh house is tentacles rising,
sprouting torpedo squid hugs and alien octopus hope
until it Cthulus all over itself in inky impossible math
His eighth is a house of cards
that shuffles itself and yells at everyone in collage
about its odd socks and left feet
and how it keeps letting those one-way tickets pile up
His ninth house is a conjurer
and the only thing up its sleeve is the glorious mundane
the patience to endure banality
the talent to not appear tired
and if you think that’s not a magic trick, then it worked
His tenth house is throwing a boomerang around the sun
because his wisdom teeth couldn’t think of anything better to do
so they left his mouth and invested in seeing the world
His eleventh house blimps underwater
in a floating naval minefield of tethered hearts
clustering like balloons in the sweating hands of a clown at a county fair
stuck beneath the waves in peaceful numbing cold
the dinner-plate eyes of passing luminescent fish
stare at it as they pass in silence
His twelfth house is one mountain goat away from covering itself in maple syrup
and calling itself the Canadian flag.
It’s one credit card away from buying the rights to broken glass.
His star chart waves from a shredder in the breeze
The white stripes growing by the second
As flammable as the closest campfire
Where he might heat up a can cowboy-style
Of wieners and beans
tags
His rising sign is a twisted rainbow galloping through the cup of his broken liver
He sneezes in retrograde and his nose apologizes
His first house wraps presents and burns them
His second house is a sex worker
splurging on late-night poutine while six Mount Rushmores watch and drool
His fingers are his third house
And his hands are an entire elevator of emotions with rats chewing on the cables
jiggling like lures
like a mating dance
like a forgiven butterly hovering over leftover steak in someone’s bedroom after closing time
His fourth house is a Las Vegas unicorn
addicted to glowing lassos
His fifth hasn’t stepped on a bug in decades
His sixth is drinking vodka out of a penthouse dog dish
His seventh house is tentacles rising,
sprouting torpedo squid hugs and alien octopus hope
until it Cthulus all over itself in inky impossible math
His eighth is a house of cards
that shuffles itself and yells at everyone in collage
about its odd socks and left feet
and how it keeps letting those one-way tickets pile up
His ninth house is a conjurer
and the only thing up its sleeve is the glorious mundane
the patience to endure banality
the talent to not appear tired
and if you think that’s not a magic trick, then it worked
His tenth house is throwing a boomerang around the sun
because his wisdom teeth couldn’t think of anything better to do
so they left his mouth and invested in seeing the world
His eleventh house blimps underwater
in a floating naval minefield of tethered hearts
clustering like balloons in the sweating hands of a clown at a county fair
stuck beneath the waves in peaceful numbing cold
the dinner-plate eyes of passing luminescent fish
stare at it as they pass in silence
His twelfth house is one mountain goat away from covering itself in maple syrup
and calling itself the Canadian flag.
It’s one credit card away from buying the rights to broken glass.
His star chart waves from a shredder in the breeze
The white stripes growing by the second
As flammable as the closest campfire
Where he might heat up a can cowboy-style
Of wieners and beans
tags
