The 23 Anaphylactic Perforations of DOnofrio
in my attic, stomping his Doc Martens for the dust motes; it seems
he’s making quite a scene up there, shoving a naked hairy forearm
like Houdini through empty picture frames. Vince winces,
as though humerus-deep and scarified by busted window
panes. DOnofrio grunts, and gropes for his reflection
cousin claimed he half-heartedly beat DOnofrio
about the buttocks and shins with bricks
of Dove soap stuffed in a striped
tube sock, as an extra
in some Kubrick flick; DOnofrio squealed
like a pregnant hyena, so the Best Boys used
their bag of tricks, softly cooing and rubbing
Vince down with Tiger Balm.
high top Keds
with a much-too-tight
tuxedo at his traumatic
high school prom
the hairline electrode
in a frog leg, grinning
when the AC
and a camouflage-colored tendon
on the chrome table top in Biology lab
went from Medium
to Xtra Long.
to the point
hes in the
DOnofrio was snooping around
when he stumbled upon my secret
closet where I keep the collection
of three hundred
D’Onofrio asked me:
Did you ever drink
ditch water as a little kid, or play Operation
all by yourself on lonesome Sunday afternoons?
the Shetland pony side
saddle. DOnofrio rides the bashful,
pony side saddle.
When DOnofrios infant nephew
in Boulder City had the colic,
a purple cloud
of bong hit smoke
with bits of pulverized pineapple
into the childs beet-red, pudgy
and hideously pinched face.
three feet thick
with a whole hindquarter
of ground chuck, gallon jugs
of cottage cheese and homemade
pasta he pulls
from an old
dryer that works upon
the principle of rolling
Vince is crestfallen, since
it seems that once again hes
forgotten to charge the battery in his accursed 3G chocolate
his dads precious Delta 88 station wagon until the U joint gave
way like a herniated intestine, and the pings and clanks and sinking
feeling with moth guts all a-drip on the spider-cracked
windshield making Everymans Rorschach blot.
DOnofrio sipped Southern Comfort and cold
blueberry syrup, bent double and dry heaving
on the grave of Jackson Pollock.
in a pool of standing water,
waving about a lackluster
like Lash Larue with low testosterone
and a lasso
DOnofrio decided a long,
long time ago that Cream of Wheat
farina cereal in the early A.M. reminded him
of slow horrifying Death by Quicksand (sickly
concentric, centrifugal) and that hed never
power-lunch under a barber pole,
nor bow for no man.
DOnofrio has a fake AK-47 that shoots
gin and juice, canned snakes, and plastic
pastel sea horses like swizzle sticks
at a Trader Vics.
Stanislavski Method Workshops in La Jolla,
where he tells his star-struck students
not to waste their time
being angry Oz apple trees with silver body paint, but rather
Lapsed Globe-Trotting Vegetarians with such violent cravings
for turkey and grease, it kick starts a fugue state, or
at least a series of horrific Grand Mal
DOnofrio just offered you a choice
between a Bad Knuckle Forehead Noogie
or a magic trick involving amputation
of the thumb.
DOnofrio badly wishes to dance
late at night, DOnofrio hears
the lonesome summer wind
sough and sough
tree branches and believes he
has had quite
clean and sexy in a skin-tight
Honey Bee Tube Top, his eyes roll
back to the whites;
but thats quite
DOnofrio is doing Tai Chi for the Brooklyn paparazzi
in a Hicks crosswalk strewn with used condoms, soggy
confetti and the chalk outline
of a dead body.
last stop; he pulls
the cheap chain
like a rip cord.
Our Vincent is bound
to get off.