In A Green Dream
Of Gregory Corsohe wrestled Andy Kaufman
in salamander long johns for the back seat
of a Greyhound Bus, with terrarium sunlight
pouring through the panes, till Kaufman cracked
his long knuckles like Rachmaninov,
& exclaimed:
“Oh ho-ho! You know
I so prefer the drivers who point out all the sights
like Alcatraz & Crater Lake with a palpable ooze
of enthusiasm on the mike—it’s way worth
the mess, I’ll surely confess!”
“Yeah, so?” said Corso. “You must dig, also
the copious condoms in crackerjack dispensers
at Monterey Zoo! Rump-red macaques, driven
mad by the tourmaline blow holes of dolphins!”
Then Gregory, on all fours, winking
at yours truly stowed away, up
in the baggage rack—gently tapped
the Roman numeral face
on his Day Glo deep sea
diver’s watch, clucking
his savant’s cotton tongue:
“This ain’t over, between me
and you, not by a green mile!”
I awoke to the sound of Andy
Kaufman’s triumphant snore—my gills filled
with Envy, as I swore at the gas-green digits
of my bedside clock said 3 a.m.
on the dot, & late for work again.
