in a sweaty sanctuary
tech is pounding
arterial strobe through
the molly tracked
trails of our ***
i'm praying a priest and
a tangerine might
cure our hell of
billiards and bongs
in the white **** of light
we call night

salmon sing stream songs
when wet rain wash river stones
and mosses kiss the shore

spinning through eliot circle
the wind gyrates above
flinging pink petals to my lips

you say you’re not a poet but
with a girl like that,
how could you speak
anything less than
the stars?
-a.c.b

body dripping sweat
gently kiss the bamboo mat
in chaturanga

I was chicken
dropped only a half tab--a quarter before midnight  
and hurried back to my apartment
before the day changed    

from a Monday
to a ruby Tuesday  
where my walls melted
and music smelled like sassafras;
the flickering flares of light from two fat candles  
tasted like toasted almonds    

every eternal hour, or minute,
or so, I would try to tiptoe down the hall  
past the sleeping neighbors who were all dreaming
of me, skulking past their locked doors

but I never made it to the street
a feat that would have demanded
I stop giggling, and my heart stop thumping
for any pig or narc could have seen
my crimson machine pumping
ready to fly from my chest    

dawn did finally come--I was
coming down, down from the floor
on which I had lain from the minute
a ferocious fly dive bombed me
somewhere around three  

I walked to the corner grocery store
where I bought pan dulce, and was glad the clerk
spoke no English, for surely she would have asked me
to tell her how I survived such an aerial assault  
in peacetime