My suspenders hook and stink like a riddle
only the wind could answer.
But the wind’s a moralist and sadist fiend.
And the policeman?
The policeman is gripping his twinkie.
I write these words against the traffic,
no bus pass to deliver me—
not because I’m cut from the labia of Eve,
but because of a lawn-colored frustration
that needs belching out from the Pleiades.
America, I’m your unicorn conductor.
I’m your shaman of streetlight.
I’m your nightmare angel.
I come and go through the bathroom window
like the crazy little mango I am.
I blow through the small, industrial cities
of night, the heroine breathing
down freedom’s neck. I meat your match,
O corporate sponsors of America—
how high’s your mighty cross?
