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Two beautiful blondes
drove by in a
magenta corvette

as I stood there
on the street
where blood

had once poured,
& who knew
that this moment

made me lesser
of a pixel?
The ground

should have
very well
just opened up,

swallowing me
whole. 92 degrees
in May,

too uncanny
of a resemblance
to July, & like

that honeypot Circe
who transformed
Ulysses’ companions

into pigs,
this heat
could make

a house transform
& die.
Earlier, I saw

a couple that
looked like
they had the

battle-lines drawn,
two humpty dumplings
falling from

the wall--
about as romantic
as purchasing

a slab of bologna. 
Without spats,
some people become

a spent force.
No matter,
I am in

my din
of childhood
where I

take the place
of the texts
of the present.

The present
is no match
for the past,

where I have
swallowed
the awkwardness

of youth. I could
have been the wind
that blew through

the hair of a former love,
but the burn-spots
left in my eyes

pierced through me,
everywhere,
the Great Core of

every matter
always stretched around
the clock,

a great fidgeting
of the mind,
lissome as

an unfull belly,
where the cache
keeps mounting

in shiny fallout,
disjecta membra.
Love-loss as

an art-form.
In the early 60’s,
Forbes was

attempting
to help prove
that business

& artistic expression
were not
mutually antipathetic,

& perhaps
it’s like the hero
that always refuses

an offered happiness,
bringing hardheadedness
into flower,

as poignant
as a flowerchild
in a wedding,

as vulnerable
as an egg in-hand.
& then there is pain.

Pain, like the
white rib
of a blue whale

lodged
into one’s pink
stomach.

This poem will
never end, like
the Pollock-movements

in my jumping-spider
body.
Will you wait for me

to release the snail
from my hand?
Will you catch it

before I drop it,
before the shell cracks,
before the eyelid

of this moment
blinks out?