Faux Foxes

You three.
Come to me.

Open this box.
Take out a fox.

They are color coded.
Don't tell me you didn't know this.

Now here's something you may not know:
Two are real, one is faux.

Ever wonder how this came to be?
What I'm saying, what I mean,

Is the thing that I most want to say:
ever wonder how a faux fox fffff-finds its way?

Okay, back in the box.
Come back next week--next week, ducks.
______

foolishness for Sunday Muse #102 and day 13 of my 39 poems in 39 days. 

Photography by Anatasiya Dobrovolskaya

cerulean

The Moon is 238,900 miles away
in a sky
so immense
that it may as well be asleep inside itself;
and you,
me,
we are less than motes--
less than the least detail
of a dream
spread out from cell to cosmos
like reflected sunlight
caught in an iris
at night on a small patch of grass.

Do you miss me?
How long will I live?
What is the funniest joke
anyone has ever heard?

The Moon is
238,900 miles away, but seems as if
it would fit inside a tea cup
and that is because
we taste its light in dreams--
we hear its gravity in the lakes of our bodies
as the next moment arrives and there it is---
what?
The Moon, pale as certainty
in the lightening morning sky.
_____

for "synethesia" at real toads.
 

Jean Pauline Sartre

I died and found myself on a quiz show.

I had led a wicked life.
I had filled the world with haiku,
and poetry so bad that it split the skulls of my victims with its very vacuity.
They moaned as I was introduced.

My two opponents were as follows:

One, an orphan, with huge eyes and belly on the tiny stalk of his body;
a paper bag with a soul in it,
waiting for a breeze.

The other, a mature woman with her hair done to within an inch of its life;
proper, pious,
a real righteous lady.

Our grinning quizmaster fired out the questions.
How did we die?

The orphan was run over by a jeep full of militia, 
waving bottles of home brew
and firing off automatic weapons at random.

The righteous dame choked on a breath mint,
and fell face first in the mah jong tiles,
so demurely that her friends thought she was only praying to skunk them.

And me?
Critics.

"And now our Final Question!" shrilled the host.
What is life?

The orphan opined that life is deprivation.
As he spoke, he slumped against the righteous dame,
who recoiled and inspected her white tailored jacket for smudges.

Then she proclaimed, from a place of unassailable certainty,
that life is values and personal responsibility.
Then she added that she was glad her tycoon father hadn't died to see this.

When it was my turn, I responded with an Oriental form:

life's tiny flower
has blooms larger than the sun
when viewed from the root.

The orphan sighed.
The righteous dame sniffed.
The host told me to Come On Down and I was made Queen of the Devils.

Now I'm back, walking up and down upon the earth,
seeking the ruin of souls, and best of all,
writing again,
one crime against poetry every day.
__________

for Kerry's existential challenge at Real Toads