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Fur Pockets

April 11, 2014

captain-caveman

My prose poem “Fur Pockets” reprinted in Eunoia Review

Eunoia Review

Once, after the mouse exploded the cat’s eyeballs and fricasseed its tail on a spit in hell, cartoons moralized senselessly. Orco was wrong because he lied says He-Man. Look both ways before you cross says the marine toting an unmounted M60 machine gun. They wanted us clean.

So different from those hippies in the painted van who never went to school, changed clothes, or said boo about a parent, who chased that gigantic wraith throughout the castle thinking their dog could talk and Velma ordinary. She discovers the wraith inside. Little Mr. McGillicuddy on stilts would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you stoned kids and that dog in drag.

So different from the prehistoric illogic of engines. The foot-propelled cars and the cave men who drive them. There’s clearly a rumbly, motory noise—what’s it for? Air conditioning? A cop pulls them over. What do you think…

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