I don’t care what the foam sea squalls say:
The mountains are made of mint.
Green I spend gliding upon the emotion-
Less ramp besieged by the creepy Count de Bourgie
Of my psyche. The orphaned Queen of my heart will jump
Straight down into her moat and drown
If the adventurer of my soul forgets
To stay on his horse.
A jacketed smoke walk down to the Bourbon wall.
It stretches a few quarters, but the one
Inside, it tunnels inward Universe upon Universe.
A bleek streak.Beaker Street. Jazz blue smokes Bitches Brew
To whites of eyes carved out of stone
Demi-Gods staring back double fisted.
They can take it even pinned to a mountain for centuries.
We (the children still inside me) roll in the dough, little sprinkled whites,
As pigeons of possibility sip cappucino on the departing square.
Someone shuffles down a back alley
Of my heart. A glance, and two dark, soft eyes
Surrender the Yucatan night as the beach waves
Dive in from the hole the Dinosaur asteroid made.
We shriek down to drink the Greek god’s salty blood.
I buy trinkets for her and two dresses embroidered with firebirds,
One for Mum. They will fly us to the shore. The rest, well…we must save some words.
The phone call goes through but I don’t hear her voice.
(Who could in this situation?)
Someone else (the sloucher) whispers a void
That sucks away the beach sunrise sunset dream.
The cats blur in the fiber
Glass behind locked chained links for winter, but the matted Tabby
Of my bewilderment is stuck in the roof of my ego
And moans for food, for a way out.
Oh, how I reach!
Sound gets through, light gets through, all the forces of nature get through
But there is still something else we are waiting for. What is it?
I never forget the freaky blizzard where even the flowing
Fountain turned into block. Don’t tell me life isn’t quantum.
(Even after wave after wave almost drowns me)
Someone, no, not just anyone,
She turns to me laughing gingerly in the cold,
Dark back alley of the warehouse district,
But I let the flashy city’s neon outlines carry me away,
Building upon building seeking the sacred pyramidal top.
Soon enough, though, I’ll be alone in the Pontiac,
Bristling at the bones,
Nestling into the concrete, filling another Weller
With spring water, looking at the gate still not crumble,
Even as the giant hundred year oaks howl at the city’s brick tablets.
My one hand left snakes, and an eye opens the Sun curtain.
One tree and a bounding suspicion race
God knows where but the car’s breath
Roars in the hope that at least it’s somewhere,
Home to someone,
Who might finally have that expression on her face
We’ve been waiting for
Our whole life.
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