My glasses are bent,

they were bent by big green ogres

who sold their toes for cigarette bombs

as Soren Kierkegaard played Russian roulette

on an apple flavored postage stamp.

This is the way of the pen.

My glasses are dirty,

dusty with the ashes of Halloween retards

jumping on a gray green gasoline lantern

lighting the alley in a three o’clock LaPorte

where the cello rolled to die.

This is the way of the earth.

My glasses are moldy,

sweet turtle-turkeys clipped their toenails

for the children of Dostoevsky to feast on

when the worms of the cocksuckers

are all but dry.

This is the way of the libido.

My glasses are blind,

like a sleeping beer full of dead man semen

resting on God’s end table

where He keeps His Gideon’s Bible

to chase off the squirrels with their nuts.

This is the way of the sword.

My glasses are dead,

like righteous fur yardbirds

netting small leaves on cemetery doorsteps

to destroy the nonexistent shadow puppets

who cry at the breaking of the vase.

This is the way of the ego.