Meeah Williams

You Are Here –>x

When you’re walking down the street
holding your life like a nothing-balloon
above your head, your allegiance
to the fork is unassailable.

I was never so spatially challenged
that I couldn’t find anything better
than an axe in a liquor store.
I was never that naïve.
I believe in my own disbelief.
I believe in a few things of my own losing.

I believe in the acne-scarred skin
of the orange I dig my thumbs into
on a Saturday afternoon, the accidental claw
of the cat leaping from my lap, the oxygen tent
in which lies crash-damaged the alien

that used to be my father. The radio
issuing a burbling stream of alphabet
over my cupped hands. And yet
I thirst. There’s something
I never said before, there must be.

I imagine all the children I never had
thanking me for sparing them this life
my kiss of death. You’re welcome, I whisper,
and pull the darkness back
over their bright little heads, still singing.

Oh my darling Brussels sprouts!

The moon,
bitter as an aspirin.

My black lips
talking
talking like this without me.

Everyone in the World Should Just Fuck Me Already

My lifestyle is killing the Earth.
Even if everyone signs up  
to the agreements that are on the table now
that still can’t get us past
the point of no return.

Stop watching television.
Seriously.
Fuck me instead.
TV shows you mostly negative information
about pumping water out of a boat.
It means nothing.
It doesn’t tell you how to find the energy
& strength to build a better manatee.

It is always good for what ails me
when someone compulsively strikes matches
& flicks them over the railing.

Everyone has a mission in life;
everyone must carry out a concrete assignment.
The truth is, I have no fucking idea
what mine is
& it doesn’t bother me anymore.

Nowadays, two people have different opinions
about how to pour water
from a gourd. Or where to
purchase a gourd.
Or whether a gourd is a Pontiac
or not.
Or what a Pontiac is, etc.
Suddenly, it’s World War 3.

The path may be simple
or not.
Who can tell?

The urge to drink alone grows old
as you grow older. It’s not like tea
can stop me from unleashing
the sickest dance moves.

THE ROBOTS ARE HERE.

My tits look for their meals in tree canopies,
although they do spend a lot time on the ground.

Touch my tits on the Eiffel Tower.

The Space Needle is a good place for reaming out my asshole.

When I have difficulty fishing in a hard pipe,
I remove my fish.
The fish tape back in the conduit
and push passed any obstructions.
They do this with ease.

If you have additional trouble
feel free to use  a heat gun inside the fitting
with a needle nose pliers.
I won’t mind.
I promise.

I am looking out the window now
searching for Flanders.

On my easel is a cracked elbow,
a great focal point,
and an outlet box.

Everything else we’ve left in a storage unit on a planet
yet to be discovered.

The Last Words of Arthur Rimbaud

The last words of Arthur Rimbaud weren’t recorded
until yesterday & only then because of a tragic hot air
balloon accident. We read it in the paper between articles
about a newlywed who drowned posing in her wedding dress
& how to survive a baboon attack with packing peanuts.

You’re likely to run out of lettuce just when you need
to exit Day Zero playing divorce on a water keyboard.
My uncle came with a sledgehammer and an elevated
sprocket. I tried to tell him we weren’t against free trade
but the bulldozers were increasingly plowing the language

into the pit. The calendar had lost a lot of days since then.
I seriously began to wonder if there were any value to a
focal seizure. Barring a colossal asteroid impact, its still
worthwhile teaching your child how to walk, even if he
or she must carry his or her head in a jar. I had a hard time

talking plain humbug. Hindi is a difficult language with which
to paint a fence. I had to retrieve my password after my water
broke. It was all a big misunderstanding. A lot of good people
went down that road, got lost, and forgot our names. We had
dinner, made a little toast, and then went right back to sleep.

At this rate, whatever it was, good or bad, was covered
with a lot of glitter. We walked out into the snow. “Come
into my bed, Dickie, and start your sock,” she said, out of
the kindness of her heart. She always loved gardens and
this one had a gate that wasn’t exactly 140 years of prison.

Apocalypse in Aisle 7

Aisle 7 was a shocking pink commentary on late capitalism
delivered by a baboon in polka-dotted underpants.
It was fake news at its best,
clownish & sincere.
It even won an award from the Society for the Prevention of Deep Breathing.
This time, according to the newsreel,
they hadn’t bombed the brown munchkins into smithereens
but buried them in tons of plastic toy trash
from Disney & their erstwhile imitators.
It was a great advertisement for the cartoons
that go so well with our genocidal breakfasts.
No one will ever forget the image
of the Virgin Mary
clutching the limp body of her stuffed teddy
crucified for the sins of the good folk at Campbell’s Soup.
The sorrow went on forever & ever
but we tied on our aprons & made hot chocolate.
It was the American Way, or some way,
for those who’d lost their way.
This time we were resolved not to hear our parents calling not realizing
that our parents had resolved not to call.
This time there were too many leftover people named
Fred who’d never been elected president
of anything.
Life is like a camera
without film that you left in a closet that has been carried off by camels.
Besides, you moved from the desert a long time ago.
If you don’t accept Hello Kitty as your personal savior
you don’t stand a chance of salvation.
And that’s not just my opinion.
It’s written in the directions of the new Gulf War
edition of Monopoly.
Check the fine print
if it hasn’t already leapt off the page
& into your bed
colonizing your brand new mattress
like an old coonhound. that has been carried off by camels.
Besides, you moved from the desert a long time ago.
If you don’t accept Hello Kitty as your personal savior
you don’t stand a chance of salvation.
And that’s not just my opinion.
It’s written in the directions of the new Gulf War
edition of Monopoly.
Check the fine print
if it hasn’t already leapt off the page
& into your bed
colonizing your brand new mattress
like an old coonhound.