By the sight of engine blocks
      melted on the frays of mocking birds--the city is mohawked      

          and the large intestine of  betrayed Alice is a flintlock             in the early morning
                  --carnal ***** flooded with music and chardonnay
                                     bruised by the fiery sort haunting the genius drawing
              of       humor--a tumor of gunpowder and splattered cardinals.

                                       We have no kings--just kids
--no queens, just compensation--

                                         and on the hood of a 1969 Chevy Impala
with the American Jolly Roger ablaze
                                         like that of a tick in the sun--wanting Alice carves
                   the cheeks from Skippy's black wound-up drool toy--in his mouth
                                        is the last word to make deities cry sentient lives

          and now you see it, the glint, the ball, the powder, and the breezeway windows
                             carved in the gum line of his mouth in reverse,
                                                        ­            and how she whispers, "Impress me."

Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity

                           maiming
                                          black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
                        and everyday geezers
                                          --drinking wine made for mad housewives.
                  We are seduced and strangled by this.

                  Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that                       levitates through
                      planet Earth's oceans
                         --how can we not pull a ****
                      from our sweaty palms?
                                          Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
                 that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
                                threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
            violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
  
                                        Cultural amoeba--
               the dimensional of minds
                                   --made up of blank smoke
                         and film negatives.
    And oh!
  How the gasoline pours rainbows
                  on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
        where we danced...
                          seduced and strangled by this.

Promises like the grape vine
burning down outside

make me regret learning
about the nuclear bomb

As Fitzgerald said, "Give me a hero
                                   and I'll write you a tragedy."
--and that kind of running never lets you down.

I

  Tomorrow waits in the dried plant bones
splintering balcony karma
          next to the ****** galatic twilight.

Moon poems paralyzing yonder
                    one color chess matches on transcended leather
     --thigh laughter        buried alive in rubble
                                                        under fifteen cushions of red flesh.
Let's go wave our bottom banners undying
in the realm of lifetimes and its spontaneous chases.

                    Plethora inhales
from one-legged warlords under fragrant wash pillars
obstructing the pilgrimage
                               of wrapping my stranger
around a blade. The second blameless pantheon
                                           of Christianity.

II

put down the flowers,
        thought scars
from a thirsty delusion
   that taste the industry instruction
            deep in meditation spoons
that pierce the sides of students. Heaven rains/angelic *******
on the obscure sail drifting towards the horizon
--a mad-religious shape
from the bottom banners undying

III*

                                                           there isn't even the smallest incense
           that the earth's door shortens,
                                  an attempt in debt
        to defame the impregnable summer
with washroom axes
                    on the grape's night before you and I snap.

The beak's vessel plunders
    the death of Queen Anne's
                                           twisted, soft scent often. Convenience stores
                            serve war in boxes.

                   A red giant's dimming
wit,      a devil in your balloon. The old governors burn their clothes
                                    at four,
                           four flags,
                                               free, fly
                                into home
                  where the birds die.

My half-century railroads heard the forest is green
when the trees are brown and burning
and the foliage is just a dream

              from the quick,        
                                      the blind,
                      and the ***** that can't dance with the sun like the others.
Water running at the end
of predestination of an unborn's underbelly.
                                                                ­   Say out to the head board
                         begging for attention
                                       --rather be a bridge
worn and bruised, understood and here. The night is here also,
                
             not alone, but no words shared. I rather wait for the walker
who can't sleep
                              to stare at water underneath
           and feel warm from its reflection
                                          --and can't sleep the entire night.

You look absolutely ravishing
in this photo. The ethereal red matches
your sodden skin perfectly. It is no wonder
why there is a spiral about your neck, lying on
the mouth of your chest.
There she stands
watching the sun start and end
all in black and white, hipster hues,
till the end of time. A train whistle blew.