EVERYTHING I KNOW I LEARNED FROM LOONEY TUNES

 

The farmer sits

on his porch.

Today he’s dressed

as a table

to put all appendages

to sturdy use.

His wife sets

a pitcher of lemonade

on his back

before zipping

up a sheep suit

to do her daily chores.

The house wears

a cloud suit

so it isn’t mistaken for a field.

.

.SINCE BIRTH

I sleep on a bed made of dogs
and know nothing different.

Every night I wrap myself
in Pit bull quilts      stitched
with Golden Retriever ears,

rest my face on Dalmatian
pillow cases stuffed
with one hundred Chihuahuas.

The paws of a Husky pack
hold up my bed, their mattress
backs mold to my tender infancy.

Before all this I rented a decent
two bedroom uptown in a womb
made of poodles.

My bed taught me how to play
dead when it really matters.

 

TJ Lyons edits Onymous, and is Poetry Editor for Arroyo Literary Review. His work has appeared in Word Riot, Up Literature, Plain Wrap Press, HTMLGIANT, and his first book, Things, will be out soon. Check him out at tjisadude.tumblr.com