(from circa 2004)
Sweet moths purr soaring
they swim above the sun
as hungry alleys juice
the frantic pedestrian
sincerely take my aching arm
licked by the roof-monster’s whip
stolen hair a mask of stealth
burnt in floods behind the shadow
I whisper the beauty of my black picture
drive away heaving the sore skin
rinse the baby rinse the sun
rinse the gates of alcoholic grace
forest creeping in crepuscular red
forest creeping to the urban edge
squirrels with machine of war
catapult your ancestors’ bones
into the windows of your childhood
those gray things
those awful gray things
the ones that pass outside
the ones that take detours
detours through your dreams
awful angry detours through
your slumbering phantasmagoria
those gray things
those awful gray things
they are not called jeeps anymore
