The weekend frolic troupe has come in.
The bells ring and their heels click:
the Adventist clergyman is about to get sick.

Pour the drink down the sink, let these fishes have a go at their dying wishes.

The weekend frolic troupe readies
to sweat out their usual rancid panic soup.
Dendrite clogged with salty water,
fanged grinning, and a gait that will not falter.

They are on the prowl
for the plumpest provincial fowl.
So hide, my sister
and fight, my brother.
End these sabbatical howls.

I smoke my last stick
throughout the night, the smoke fades
Tomorrow, I'll starve.
The damp morning brings wet rice,
jaundiced eyes, and collapsed lungs

The brown water wanes—
Black-head buoys and a poem:
Birds sing elegies.
The sky absolves once again
Amnesia reverberates.

Gentle whipping sun
lashes the vaporized sea.
Fishes flail in salt
embedding the mem'ry of
ancient pelagic waters.

The dry land crumbles,
in its dust comes tumbling ****—
a serpent slithers through.
Corrosive sands lost to time
invites the traveler to die.