Green Chimneys

by Mark James Andrews

Slide
with me down green chimneys.

Destroy
all monsters and walk them over
to the bone yard
to staple their skirt hems
to the eaves of the crematorium.

Trim
the chin whiskers on the elf
perched on his bench
with the assault rifle
strapped over his shoulder blade.

Embrace
the polaroid of me
sitting on the silver minnow bucket
offering you a yellow perch
or was it a blue gill?

Canonize
the ham fisted sinner at the Steinway
sermonizing between twinkle tunes
“one never knows
do one?”

THE CHIMPANZEE DESTROYED THE RAG TOP

by Mark James Andrews

not only did junkyard dogs guard
the once noble chariots on the oil
soaked grounds but a chained
baby chimp offered in barter
for the automatic transmission
from a rare 1948 Buick Roadmaster
was displayed outside the cash
register shack for customer novelty
and the comic fear factor of a bite
from his remaining milk teeth until
later in his animal year’s quicktime
his hairy juvenile biceps and fingers
would be forced to pry off wheel covers,
light assemblies, bumpers, mirrors
and all body chrome of value and
then the ownership taught him
to use a butane torch to burn off
the outer casing of copper wiring
until he turned it on a tow truck
driver who motioned for him to light
his cigarette which compelled me
to kidnap the chimp after closing
on a rainy Friday night and set him
up on a blind date but first he demanded
through his acquired sign language
to indulge his new dependencies
to hit up Ed the Paperman stationed
curbside outside Polka Party Store
for a fifth of sloe gin and a gram
of red hash before we picked up
the sophomore girls from St. Cyril
for a double-date at the Belle Air
Drive-In to see Gimme Shelter where
I forgave most of his antics in the back
seat but THE CHIMPANZEE DESTROYED
THE RAG TOP on my '62 Rambler
convertible because his girl wouldn’t put
out in the manner he was accustomed.

In the thumb of the Michigan mitten

by Mark James Andrews

the afternoon sun kept breaking
through the maples teasingly opaque
but luminous like a Degas canvas
if only racehorses would parade
down Cottageland Road
high stepping in their nervous coats of silk
for a wager as I crack the Remy Martin
seal for a splash as we’re still on coffee.

We recline in a languid balance
on this canopy 3 seat swing
plotting to continue our secret nightly pruning
of the neighbor’s low hanging branches
which trespass on our view of Huronia blue
300 feet down the track
when they come skidding up their drive
in a dusty red Hemi Ram Quad Cab

killing our field of ten fillies and mares
at post time while blotting our canvas
of Degas with late model Dodge pick-up
in a mad scramble of unloading tool boxes
PVC pipe and CLANK dropping a sump pump
screaming for God to damn it all to hell and
flashing a monster ring of keys under our sun
to finally disappear into their summer home.