Jeffrey Bean My Yard

My yard is electric salad, sizzling
with cricket-sparks, smothered
in bird-shit dressing. My yard rocks
Medusa hair the color of spider blood.

My yard is a lazy, stoned teenager, it floats
in circles around my street on a bicycle,
giggling to itself. Each night it plays
sloppy bass guitar until the neighbors
wake up and call the cops, who stomp
on its face, dumbfounded
in the noise, no one to arrest.

My yard doth teach the torches to burn,
it changes air into robins, blue jays, squirrels,
it breathes helicopter seeds, squeezes pumpkins
into fistfuls of white butterflies, hurls them
into every kitchen window on my block.

My yard can slow dance, it can slam dance,
it knows Swahili, English, Aramaic, French
and how to babble like a German baby.

My yard is German, baby. It cops a feel
from every officer it meets, memorizes
their contours, builds sculptures
of their asses out of wind.

My yard is hot. My yard is blind
and it invented braille. It has a minor role
on a new sitcom called Larry’s Place, it drinks
its face off every night just to fall asleep.

In fact it is always drunk—on worm-shit, violets,
witchgrass, English daisies, and Wild Turkey straight
bourbon whiskey. My yard peeks into every mailbox,
it reads the notes in the pockets of all who pass
beside it. But don’t call it out, because

my yard is a big scary motherfucker
with a tattoo of a garage opening into
another garage and another and so on
until it comes to a final garage, which holds
a diamond with my yard’s mother’s face on it.

Every hawk, rock, pop can, and freak
is welcome in my yard. Even you. Go ahead, lie
down, disappear in its fingers. My yard
is growing, always, even at night when
you forget about it, and when it sprouts
its wet eyes, it watches you.


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