Bluebonnets For a Plague Priest.

The story was not unlike 5 easy pieces,
oilfield pianist meets the voluptuous
horror of Karen Black, or a daisy,
they said, like the Summertime
where a sexual candle accident,
a veil, and a table had caused
a saying to be born, good sex became
"a real sock-burner" for us, but

nothing was real but pain

though it could be made to seem so
by the hushed hunch of the bunch
in a crunched rush, now squshed up
into a punch, and a Judy, Judy, Judy

Encino.

I kick your head off like a football
over on golden pond and you like that,
the sub-genius head-launching parties
with their naked girls in Bob Dobbs masks
glittering like fresh green hamburger
arcades, the lucid mint blossoms made

pagodas

for chillicoot bee paddlers, and a
dinosaurian luridity infusing it all
like a nineteenth century Parisian
wax-museum run by a newspaper
to commemorate exceptionally
wonderful tragedies, of which
there were many,

bodies

squirming in barrels
half dissolved
in cackles.

And in Poland, we'd hunt carp
in barrels at Christmas time,
and study math by a big circular fire
while men in boots danced in a circle
with linked arms carrying cats
in little red coats
hung with paper mice

Jolly ivy fishmongers
of Poland.

It's all nice, to be Jack Nicholson, communing
with the ghosts of the hotel, everybody knows
how that story ends, we drive, like
abstract frozen cucumbers, green icicles
hang from our noses in the snow-cat
primeval olive oyl

Shelley Winter's Ivorian
medieval lute crack spessage...

And in the hall of the Yeti Emperor
through weirdly spinning peristyles
of islands of frozen ice columns, I glimpse you

like a thing
eating penguin dolls
under the gunpoint of goblins
cross-hairs traversing your body
like red Christian clover
or tiny American Red Cross laser ads
put out by

Buffoon Republican Women

wearing dirty sheepskin monocles.

O Debbie, the Earth is a cankerfret condom
covering the total understanding
of all of space times all of time
but standing in one place
like a cannabinoid

Renoir's Captain John
isn't the image
you need right now,
I understand, but
tricyclic fessouns
will allow you
to one day want
the crunch
of a fallen man,
evil girlish laughter
you called 'an economics'
while
bouquets of war heroes
litter the land,
all things
now dripping
in tickertapes.

It isn't sad, though.
I'm driving around
in Brooks Brothers
saying: Τούτω Νίκα!
{Tu toi, Nikkei!}
to a golden fleece
monogram, my only
friend for the day, or
maybe it comes down
to Texas, Mrs. Jones
playing with a booger
and some fluff
on a dinner mat
like a shaman
plays with bones
in the dust, I'm
staring at a china plate
which is a portrait
of Marie Antoinette.

Ezra said
the French Aristocracy
were Punk.