Saturday, November 14, 2015

strange town, familiar smell

the sign on the door says
Believe in Jesus
Christ Be Saved.
By God, 
I knock and score
enough for me 
and my friend Ben, 
the suicidal Chihuahua,
to get tranquilized
alley-wise over by the Walgreens.
between dumpsters
lie wicked dreams:
deposit me in the passenger seat
of didion's yellow corvette 
screaming down
early sunday morning streets,
one of flannery's peacocks
winging the wheel.
intimacy gone stale 
as a half box of cracker jacks
in an Aztec time machine. 
piss on that smell.
George Carlin said 
we should die first
spend our last nine months on earth 
in a womb and
finish as an
orgasm.
I guess that'll be the safe word,
I says,
to a rat wearing a leather mask
who 
is rumored to infect 
his sexual partners
with a nasty strain of optimism


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