Lavender jazz sparkles ice hot.
Passion is a lame camel spitting
acid juice from fat lips.
In my field of dreams a green ox grazes
On purple rows of yellow corn.
A temple bell tangles with a warbler.
Dipping my blueberry Poptart in
last night’s martini, I enjoy
a malleable feast. The blue-eyed olive
I wrap in grape leaves for Julia.
Strapping on my Nukies,
I pause before the hallway mirror.
The eyes are red and the lips look gray.
There are cracks in the pukka face
And the nose is beaten crooked.
The portable scanner is crackling
with static from the Wheaties’ bunch.
As I chill the pad and clear the cave,
I am reminded of Beardsley’s remains.
Four ounces of plastique in a green whanger…