transgressions facing southeast

A kite dancing in a daily mantra: bayonets, tanks and

having friends are overrated. The Pollyanna neohippie

just wants to be touched; the enemies will invade to

indescribable bombardments. The eel is sublime, absolutely.

I’d always denied Quixote and disillusion, but so speaks

nitroglycerin and acetaminophen and magnetic orientation.

Notions absolute are refuge impotent. Rotgut mopped and

wrung from vampire saloons has lubricated the gears of

morrow’s fears and those who popcorn through poltergeist.

The albino on the chessboard is an incredibly ambitious white

elephant. End over end, the monosyllabic make three bites

of a cherry. Keep the coffee hot and wish for an overnight

transition or a short recess for decomposition: forever balconies

and neverending ledges with all the broken things in a

milk-spilt pattern. The tornado at the family reunion was

drawn in black crayon. Lawrence Ferlinghetti sits nearby,

reclining on a metal chair on which are imprinted the words:

“DEW DROP INN OUT – FROM THE CLASS OF 1998”

He hands to me the bridle of a furious cyclone of a whimpering,

collapsing fable, once a Pacific breeze before being molested in

an alley by a jester late for a Viking funeral, left for dead in L.A.

for a smog’s bayou. They’re out there, I tell you, and they are

breathing on me.