The Ox and the Pig

The ox and the pig had business in New
York. They were both meant
To be in the Lower East Side. The ox moved
Into an ancient tenement
With plans of writing a tell all
Memoir. He bought an ink block set
In China Town and used his tail as
A brush. The pig went to confer with the Rabbinical Congress.
I’m flattered, he said, we all are. But why
Us? Don’t you see how much pressure this is? Don’t you hear
Our wailing? Honestly, I want to die.
I’ve been alive for thousands of years.
I’m not the only one who feels this way.
The ox has since fled upstate.

The Roommate

Joe lives under my bed.
He mumbles terribly.
I thought he was a ghost for years—
Always wailing and squawking.
He starts in around eleven
And goes for an hour and a half.
Sometimes he’ll do an encore.
I don’t sleep well.
Occasionally, he’ll just talk.
Typically, outdated, British politics.
Something about the Queen,
Take to the streets this and that.
All sorts of righteous vagaries.
But he’s so passionate
That I want to get involved.
I don’t sleep at all those nights.
I write Marxist pamphlets
On antique typewriters
And cut the sleeves off everything I own.
He preaches about the entrapments
Of money and the great corporate scheme.
I’ve called in sick to a lot of jobs.
I think he wants me to be poor.
What would he do if I lost my house?
Would he hang around for new tenants?
I like to think that we have a great rapport,
Although one sided.
I can’t imagine that anyone
Else would put up with him.
Especially if he just keeps lying
Where my bed was.
That must be awkward for the realtors.
Not a chance they could move him.
He’d eat a subpoena.
I’ve heard him eating worse.
I doubt they could move him by force.
He seems like the type who only goes when he’s ready.
Maybe he wants to move,
Try out a new floor, something carpeted,
But wants me to lead the way.
He comes off as kind of out there—
Lost in his own thoughts.
But I wouldn’t put a plan like this past him.
Maybe he’s screwing with me.
I’ve woken up to plenty of new haircuts:
Pompadours, too-wide mohawks, respectable trims.
I can’t say that he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I hear him giggling down there plenty.
He smokes a lot of grass.
It’s not that bad, though.
I just light up a cigarette and crack a window.
At least he doesn’t leave
Corn chips and bongs all over.
Maybe Joe just likes to talk.

Arbitrareum

A batch of birches hover in a row,
Or not.
Why not? They do,
Quite elegantly, in fact.
They each have at least five hundred
Years of ballet
And the one farthest down
Just started gymnastics.
He loves the high beam.
There’s something almost erotic in being
So perfectly, symbolically perpendicular.
It’s like being rerooted
And slipping your mossy tendrils
Inside the Earth so snuggly
That you wonder
If it was made just for you.
Man, does that take him back.
The boss says that he’s too big
For the ground now.
The tree doesn’t feel too big
But he doesn’t want to make a fuss.
He’s sure they need the room
For some new saplings.
A group of teens comes up
To the tree and all blow at the same time.
The tree tips a little.
They come about once a week.
They’re sure going to prove something
One of these days