o hunt

Tiny civilization in my pocket

I unwind the human skull and skulk up your back
With a tiny civilization in my pocket
You talk about non-toxic shampoo
Then interrogate our oily thief
I was supposed to win something by now
And tour the west coast in my jalopy
One rest stop before the apocalypse
In the KFC parking lot surrounded by tired girls
You were supposed to sit quietly
In your art-deco log-cabin
And meditate on colon cancer or something
As psychological necessity
Our mini-mart fashion side-show
Won't remove the sad quiet feeling
Of buying new shoes
When you can make them just as well
From fleshy worn out bodies
Or call the troops together For one final sally
Into the meaty child-care center

Little bugs park the dawn

I will start a punk-rock band
Because everything
Is the same as everything else
And you don't exist anyway
Humans are sentient
And otherwise useless
I text my boyfriend about this
It's terribly hot and
I'm a multi-purpose herd animal
With brain kill or no kill
To overthrow public relations theory
And buy the suede jacket
Fulfill my dumb hybrid desires
Engineer the beautiful console
Beneath the hostile blizzard
I am a thing
And you can own things
Like video-games
Or French fries
My punk-rock band
Will sing about "Empires"
It will be a
"Revolutionary expression of
Teen angst drama"
And will buy me a hatch-back
To drive to the ocean
My boyfriend is
My boyfriend's friend
I let him
Do what he wants
There is no octopus at the zoo
The octopus is a terrorist
Each arm triggers a bomb
Eight bombs for the revolution
I could kill
Fifty thousand people
And buy an i-pod
Imagine a parking lot
That runs to the horizon
With crisp white lines
Perpendicular wide lanes
Spaces you could park your tank in
This is my punk-rock empire
Where I am a tangent
To any tangible object
And only half-terrestrial
There is a story about
Fleece-pullovers and religion
But you won't tell it
And I only want to microwave alone
In my compartment
Girls in peril reject airplanes
Or the backward mob
And I am the real terrorist
With the real terror
Completely composed
Of anti-theft mirrors and
A graphical user interface
I am high school treasurer
For the strip-mall summit
And you are President of California
We will track the financial progress
Of anti-violence initiatives
And save the girls from themselves
Before the girls receive the sun
Bellies skyward and red
My bikini tan-line is crackerjack
Well-plotted and cross-timed
Before the car-bomb fiasco
Where thirty-two fingers
Tore themselves from hands
And drifted toward
The alien spaceship landing site
My punk-rock band waits
Guitars and drums poised
For the feeling that
That thing has done the thing
That things do
To make you and I
Into the things
That we must forever become


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o hunt runs a small daycare in Idaho and sometimes climb trees.




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