on the radio
THIS IS JUNGLE MADNESS
and no one
is around
like in the ultracybersweetness
of bike pedals
they are waiting
to deliver you
into march madness
and circus midgets
on skateboards 'After this
eating each other you'll be
begging
for
chik-fil-A'
they are lurking
around the corner
behind the
all night diner of your
dreams(closes at 11)
where rabbits
become angelic under
the jazz silk
of knight
'Gee...
these
stars shore
are prit-ee'
the great glowing rectangle
pirate freakout is
ready to take you
under its arm
and fill you with
inconceivable static
a new york city
traffic cop from
yesterday's
new world order
walks slowly
thru the rain
like a poet
as if the first
thirty minutes
of an ideological
war(i)or basketball
priestess spent
thinking about time
and watching the
backs of commercial
trains go by the
national guard
offices
as if science
and politics were
strangers hoping to
meet, by chance,
on a bus painted
blue with envy
and a one eyed
driver
tipping cow
boy hat at the
strange gentlemen
in their lonely
cars at the
intersection
as if fire was
the manipulated
corpse of a mouse
in the little dog's
mouth with
black tail
wagging in
confused pride
of course this
is only what
i've heard
i was asleep
as is often the case
Take no prisoners!
Fuck conjunctions!
keaton's elusive
smile is hiding
under the streetlights
with a friend
,dressed as superman,
dropping the names
he has collected
in hot bookstores
and small towns
where blood dries
faster than ink
i know which
way to run
when the train
hits because
there are outlaws
stumbling down
these dirt roads
in ruby slippers
past temporary
nihilisms like
brushstroke
hurricanes in
a straight line
north and south
becomes up and
down towards fast
food cardboard oil
factories or the page
abandons gd on a
yellow moped
wearing bandanna
red tinted sunglasses
(Gritó de Sueños)
against the crushed
pavement apologetically
/ the construction
of battlespeak
is breathing
exercises
and chocolate
ice cream
in a floral-pattern bowl
on the sacrificial
couch with yr
feet under the dog
Dustin Holland lives with his mother and puts pieces of chicken into boxes for money.
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