SOAKING UP THE FLAMES
The biofeedback boy has been preparing to steal a kiss
from the redhead who lives in the burned-out house on the next block.
It was all OUR GANG on the TV backlot soaking up secondhand flames
before my prurient impulses could dredge up my masquerade sketches.
One of the remaining boomer bungalows left in the Valley
has become no more than a trap for marauding footnote poets.
I can talk up a storm of noxious dust with the best erratic librarians.
A fresh possibility for paranoid shut-ins has left the station of dreams.
Pluto is still a planet for me no matter what the gummy scientists say.
For some unknown reason, there are fish guts floating in my polkadot sink.
ROUTE 66 comes on at midnight just for all the handlebar preachers from hell.
If necessary, I can do a great hormonal poet and do a barefooted backflip
into the melancholy of iridescent bliss with a twist of heartburn.
No comments:
Post a Comment