The screaming blazing comet of your head from a nice boot of white
streaks the grey brown void to places where there is no other stuff
to curse you with unnatural pink volume and the yellowness of stars,
a empty dark billow where all is right because all has ceased to be at all
except re-entrant crispiness because the burning ground is all burnt up.
There is no consumer taxonomy for streaking on such a gone degree of orbit
while you flail a dead sock at the eel weir moss that takes your breath away-
black and white scotty magnets on macadam cannot patch that glassy trouble,
nor your helmet made from broken street lamps shield your grey from aliens:
your thirty year detour in primer paint with a down-draft wing of six-cylinder spunk
marked with crusty cedar apple rust always washed out under dark umbrellas.
Orange sunrise on the sherbet dormer reflects your gaze so blank and banal
with that scrufty dog window sill white over the winter bales of grassy seed:
a plump berry of hazy fumes in this sweet and churning perfume of icy ecstasy
encourages the theoretical kundalini of monkeys to stream your long jones live
with hard radio static over the squawks of geese that plainly state the granite statutes.
In a world of ubiquitous metaphor when I click on the light I am a god to you,
just another kind of blackbird with extra tears for the withered little tweaker
who's stealing breath for one more sunset in an exoskeletal bag of crispy chips:
and it's all just a mandala in sands of green, maroon, and rust
about to be swept away.