The Crass Air as Décrasser,

A line of venturis
will make its gleaming day
above the valley.

Angie,
in this crystal mule haven,
a jigsaw aeroplane
becomes the universal principle;

trans-atlantic cable,
car balloon prow walrus
myth contraption.

Our son,
in Canada
is a detective
of snow.

Bad ham
is suggestive
of old halieutic
associations.

The Senate
could decide
in its toroid zeppelin labyrinth,
the color of knees.

Angie,
our policewoman origins,
our antique jewelry glass elevator
stockings can be among
this horse race
announcer voice
couched on a hare
of police sirens
sleeping,
its amoeba Madonna
has its back to us
facing the racing form
and the track below.

We enter the disco as jockeys,
a cigar from RCA,
given to the red glass heads
of the gelatinous officials,
the water mare
now passed,
pushed up into its
ricocheting harness
of believers and
the carefully fitted
aeroplane
whose wings
are hinged
to become the
blinkers
of the blinders.

The lithograph sponge animal
walrus jockey telephone
with a home made broom
keeps some yellow smoke
inside a bone.

Lino Venturi's lounge car
replaces the missing trumpets
on jade swirling shelving.

The future
is weird furniture.
I worry about it, the color
of the gum of bank robbers.

Angie,
if you could see this place from above
we'd be in a deep skinny crack
surrounded by an ocean of tree-faced
sharks
through which the mad honey travels
in a caravan of smoke-wheeled
parvenus, a parking lot
for golden frogs
holding hands
in the dark
while sleepy jockeys
crawl through a long
rubbery snake,
a new disco singer
from Paris, broom
stiff with groatish
mud.