In line for the grub of unknown origins
I whip out my wallet to pay for the privilege
of dining with the misfit toys of Easter Island.
Between my fingers the crisp bill flickers to
the florescent lights of garden green and gold.
Behind me I look and see the flowing robes of
a desert monk with curled brown hair in his eyes.
“What the hell do you want?” I ask this strange man.
With the strength of Ali he knocks my front teeth
down my throat and snags the paper from the air.
“The special” he says with a wink and a smile.
Six miles downwind lie the dead souls
who dared stand before your putrid stench.
Beyond fly burnished bats as fruity faraway trolls
trample through the locks to quench
their impossible thirst for fresh buttered rolls.
Shampoo is not for you who turns wrench
on oneself and strips the screws from scrolls
written and read by three-fingered French
friars of the underground smellastic holes.
Sharks swim the endless seas that surround us,
you and I the sole survivors of this perilous charade.
One step pretends, the others mean where they go.
What will it take I wonder, for you or I to chance one
more dive into the tempting murky waters beneath.
Bring me sundown
over the mountain
and through the
clouds I see.
Lock the door
to the day,
tied crimson strings
turn the key.
Wake up again
and cut the
knot that hides
all hope away.
Spread your wings
newborn heavenly traveler,
broken crimson strings
hold no more.
Caught with the hand in the till with chips
down and out spread eagle on the tilted table.
Sweet delight licked from the lips as laughter
fills the smoke-filled room of your imagination.
Red liquor drunk from paper cookie cups spilled
on satin stain the ceiling with orange-cream smoke.
Luscious ladies in lingerie deliver the jaded June
dues in ebony envelops torn at crusty corners.
Opened with a wish the paper cookie cups
reveal the raspberry-flavored writing on the wall.