45*21

for 6/25/10

"Never the pig to teach us what we already know."
So says the stranger to the whore
we are all strangers on a moss island
there are little grasping breaths
at the end of each slim sideway glance
in the depths of the lacquered hallways
Fat old grandees hit hard shots of cheap liquor
The reflections fade beyond the shadowy dunes
A novelist at the end of time takes a long drag
the street cracks beneath slender feet
an awning comes loose from its anchor
fast sleek runners over hurdles
the waves break as they say, "ha!"
the reel lets loose off the sprocket
the muscle squirms loose from the rock
stitches are for people who want to heal
The decrepit doctor writes a last script
the echos slap against the tennis court hallways
A fake mustache comes away from the soup
in an ocean of ideas rotting in dead minds
of floating corpses in hall closets