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

body dripping sweat
gently kiss the bamboo mat
in chaturanga

one time i tripped like never before
and the jazz in my eyes could light fire
to the old couple’s balding heads next to us
in the mineral wells mcdonald’s

it was a missed opportunity
the tab was amazing
and at my peak, i felt that in each passing second
that great poetry bubbling in me

i didn’t write any, though
so you’ll have to deal with this ****
thanks, j.b.

what sad little fish
had lost faith in the ocean
and swam to the shore

my oils will bid these
pages age
and the leather will stain
and we’ll invade iran
and shoot the kids
and i won’t be able to
write in this much longer
because the oils will ruin
the pages and our earth