POWELL-PERALTA

dead aliases, can't find my way home

so crates seem to orate 

the navel's concrete dollop 

of delphic phones

someone tied a mannequin in a tree
on a cold winter's day

let any sky blue neo-classic dome
come this way
for black cubes look good
in summer parks
hot and absorbing

all massless work
the self
as light
unburdened
unchained

the Promethean radiation
now blurred by distance
cheeks rouged
for artefacts

each moment gives its nameless unstructuring
structuring
from grapheme to graph me
from grid to bubble

sharpies write fine
on modern balloons

and harpy
and harpy
and harpy

get a clue
black spaghetti shuggoth
irking jazz hieroglyph

St Louis Arch
fluorescent pink
mayaglyph

lime green rib-bones
of polyurethane