Bruce Campbell’s Arm (a forward-reverse abecedarius)
by Rob Spiegel

 

A letter treated with a buzz –

be yourself for a change, go buy

carrots, asparagus, flax,

dental floss. Fear not your troubles, bow

every day and every day drink Popov.

Fear’s the last of your worries. Cousin Stu

geared us up for Scott’s next movie – that

hellish one where Bruce Campbell’s arm explodes

idiotically into a chainsaw. Birds soar,

jousting for advantage, for the bug, PDQ,

kicking the oldest deity. Not a pip

left for scolding, and not an Oreo

more till dinner. She took her noon

nap instead of children. Not much of a mom

or even a wife. She would go on to steal

potatoes just for the adrenalin kick.

Quiet your lower urges, calling wings to the Big J.

Rouse him if you choose. He’s no longer Hindi,

slipping always away from god. He’s high

tonight. Down at Winning’s he’ll be singing

up the blues, the get-me-sober-again refrain of

vipers and vampires, even the Evil Dead creature

wound from the book. You can almost feel the dead

xithering through the mud, sending a c.c.

your way, a warning, watching you stab

zebra on the plains for food and beauty, for Mama.