Damon Hubbs

Zoo

The moon throbs 
just so, like a cock ring 
or Nadia’s dildo. I’m spangled 
and dreamy and drinking Blue Heaven,
hot mouth, azure slur. The trees
are green mansions. 
I keep mishearing poems.  
If you see Kay 
tell him we’re playing Telephone
with Radovan 
and Lady Mondegreen.
Pattie is boo-
fucking-hoo 
about some boy 
who looks like Susanna Hoffs. 
The poets are beefed up 
performing Coney Island 
and San Francisco
dead mothers
faintings and blackouts. 
I take my temperature with your tongue
damned to hell. 
I tell the lion that the Brazilian stole my bush. 
Is it weird to go to the zoo alone?
I drink Lime-A-Rita at the art auction
talk to a ceramist about Sweden’s moose migration
wrench nonsense into sense
mishear someone calling my name
read the label under a painting of Christ  
as Gladly, the cross-eyed bear.
Fuck, is that Susanna Hoffs? 
I feel like I’m dying 
when someone asks me 
if I’ve ever read 
“How to Write an Avant-Garde Poem”
and even worse
when she says 
she’s asking for a friend.