buried in a pollock splatter

buried in a Pollock splatter
Lead [-]

--hector the crow

the distangled threads of white
noise filter thru policy vents.
happy places on the way. marx
was waiting for this on the corner
knew she' d come by, glad to be
his entertainment for the night.

whatever ions need to discharge
discharge thru the prism, blow the breaker
in her eyes. he wants to kidnap a play
bury it in your driving lane and tie
her to tomorrow. her hands are pigeons

pocketed. you want to past tense the entire
melody, spinal tap for mimi in miami. there are needles
in the cabinet, clean but large. open wide. she dives
into the wobbling voice of water,street carnage
written on his face. landslid announcement of irony
disperses a statement of stability and flame
and too much is read into everything regarding diplomacy.
she loves the way the vein pulses in his forehead.
hookah bars are on the way.















*



on the front porch
we watch the sky play
with light sockets. the sky
takes lsd , exploded in double
rainbows over potholes
to this side of town.

how many times have you done this
he asks.she shrugs. i've lost count.
spontaneity becomes de riguer.
hopeful is never the same after hollywood.

inside it's irish nite. the band plays
a bottle full. we need popcorn
and a menu. suddenly sharing
a salad's as intimate as sharing
a glass pipe.he say my son
tells me poets hide
behind words. i begin
to talk. he say i was in the marines

i worked in food service i was a nurse
in a former lifetime. we don't know
why we share these stories
over and over. we don't know why
the poets can't write us out
of these fingers and bolts from black clouds.

she say it's not as safe as you'd imagine
sitting here under the roof. i grew up
where kids got killed just sitting
in the front window. he smiles
says i'll chance it. she thinks he means
her. blows the lights out with a wink.

they come on again. the waitress is studying
dance. in college, working the convo
for tips cuz the porch is empty.
everyone's inside at the bar
tipping sheri instead. i just eat
the salad,happy that the croutons

are crisp,the taste of anchovy
and emperors in my mouth.
when the talk is all gone,
he begins to look in my eyes
instead of the stones around my neck.
i try to embed meaning into

the small multicolored lights wound
through the southern railings, or the way
the tables keep rearranging themselves
or the sound of retreating thunder
and the smell of headlamps hitting the road.