The View from Below

I see Kurt Vonnegut’s

propelled by incessant farting

on another planet — the name

is of no consequence — caught

in the act of foreplay, giddy at that.

The world watches, listens

for needles to drop, the ocean

boils in anticipation, the fish

are open-mouthed and shudder

at the thought of surrender.

In the wings waits the Puritan unicorn

for a cue to invade

the picture,

deflate all those balloons

passing by in majestic,

orgiastic splendor.

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