Here's a sample poem from Pop-Up Book of Death
the one always clutching the bullhorn
I might fight you for it.
You should seek work
narrating the trailers
for cheezy Satan movies. You,
always the break-in voice of
the Emergency Broadcast System,
freaking me out with
crescendo warnings of the imminent
and the pinwheel touchdown of the
Mega-Twister, all perpetual haunters
of the View-Master in my mind.
My brain becomes your radio too
for the latest broadcast of
the Orson Welles Panic Hour,
firing up my amygdala,
the almond-shaped fear nugget that
operates roller coasters in my mind,
the ones packed with an
all-star cast of screamers.
Hey listen, Fear, my nemesis, my baby,
you, the tremulous force field like an
ice-cold amniotic sac, always
why not take a Hawaiian vacation
or hibernate yourself away
down deep in the silent archive of
squirrel acorns-out of my head and
just where I can find you.
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