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."

Calcium bricks stink spilled
gossip,
broken others granddad forgot
to mend when he fertilized the azalea bushes.

The mummified Southerner could ****
in the wind. And be happy. And be quiet.

                      Much like the blind man
staring out the window into the murky water,
                "Mock me
and all your flowers will never bloom."
      My granddad would say
                                till the day he became
                                the dirt beneath the stone.

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.

***** sock law
states satisfaction is not done  

                                          there are things still to be done

like the commodities of sanity

                       that bathe every street
as Leo Szilard street--avoid the police, avoid the police.
                                        Her fake fur coat
  cleaves                 the words against her lover              off
              from the veranda stench.
"You're never angry with me."

                                                       standing in Moscow
                           passing out pamphlets
                                                            abou­t Communism.
  "Everything I want
                 and I
          couldn't be unhappier."

Sudans pass by, catchy music plays, and the waitress is late
                                                                ­                             with our order.

There is a rocking chair in your dreams croaking rhythm against the rotting front porch. No one is there, and then there is. This ******-motion picture is an old lady, a young girl, a dying farmer, a corpse, a bouquet of flowers, and then you. But you refuse to look at yourself long. You leave as soon as the veins in your forearms surface.
The walls reek of mold as you step in, and all at once every board splinters out and implodes to a nickel-size spot just six inches in front of you Then it burns itself till the point of a charred cigarette.
“Hug me,” it says.
And you do.
“No, hug me like you actually mean it.”
And you do. You hug Death’s slow-burning dynamite so tight the paper rips off and you are in a desert, surrounded by tobacco. But you hear sheets of rain in the distance, and you can’t forgive yourself for not being where it’s at, and dancing while it washes off the stench of Hell from others. There is a woman guiding you.
She doesn’t exist. So you push her surrealism back into her mouth, and tell her to *******.
Now you are sweating angst. And by God, or whoever—the fear is back.
******* and ******* to calm the beastly sensuality that eats rose buds for the jolly fun of it, that wants to miss work, and plug fleshy holes with credit. Why can’t Day and Night have a middle ground like Heaven and Hell? The Purgatory of regimented time, where guilt is legal, crosses are burned because they represent love, and people are murdered because it’s a religious experience.
And you end up in a box, drinking your favorite soda, and this is real—an odd thing to say to yourself, but it’s true.

Sugar skull rabbits reproduce in peace like Novocaine
the sun took to die in peace.
This is spring mortars, exploding shells, shrapnel shot—the new breach of day
A wedding in a box,
a perfect day to conquer fate.

Plump naked bodies foil to the size of rhubarbs quaking
in surprise snow hurting itself by creating new life.
Impregnated with granite disciples—the snow always returns for its own.

Consume that last toxic morsel my child
and be king for the rest of your apple on the ground.