Yoga for Neocons. by Ian Kappos

who majored in zoology & decided
they had limbs enough for two, you’d think the freeze
frame would make vapor but no camera here, Shiva’s got
eight arms & a sweet tooth for candy-coated garbage
on your hands & knees the cat
done drug in your god only challenges
his favorites
don’t put it
past the octopus to shart ink on your gratitude list, add that
to the axioms along w/ deified evil
grin, singsong voice brand name whippoorwill, crows for
that matter need not apply
you can mix metaphors as
long as you sound confident, we’ll all die
just fine w/o the shower so damn cold I wanna punch
a hole in the fucking ozone, build/heat wind/down find/balance
drishti; what was that drawing my ex made to get my attention
that one time, there’s a reason why I’m here besides
boxcar torso ochre skin nicotine patch slipping off can’t
scream thru your nose it’s on your list too while
you find supta baddha konasana train rumble like quaking colon,
automobile mating calls at the speed of ochre yellow matted
hair like ’60s porn pubes, concentrate outside yourself where are the cars
headed, who’s that with the tarot
tattoo don’t they know that’s a load of shit & this
fucking song again, heading south toward that side of town the side of
town where I did grow; I don’t know the names of cars nor do I care
for the taste of coleslaw, I remember now, how my uncle used
to call me boy, hair
on fire lamb eyes
he always did the cooking—no my past does
not haunt me & what you’re doing now
isn’t how it’s done, the blinds turn in not out
there’s no mirror here but the ones in the back will set you straight two
bathrooms one for you & one for your carcinogenic doppelganger, take a stroll
at the bottom of the pacific boy oh the sights you’ll see when you
can cook for yourself, find
shivasana, motherfucker, I’m
Hanuman, the jig is up oh and namaste