From: Pedro’s Last Coin

Apart from the rock and the vultures, the wind and the shifting mounds of sand, none will ever penetrate her hood of silence and serene discomfort the way I have done so here, in the gates to Heaven. I have lifted her veil, and seen the beauty that lies dormant in her cerebral scars, and in her heavenly tissue which will issue forth my firstborn child. She gave me sight when I was blind, and gave me drink when I thirsted; she brought me back from the dead and fed me upon the sadness in her soul. I am no more myself, I am hers now and forever more.

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BBQ Pork

Thickening agents’ colloquial reverse,
Painted on thin signs,
Plastered as it were to walls,
This drops parasite information;

Glued chopsticks as reformation
To heal a sculpturally lost generation.

In the vicinity
Of Tupac’s
Reimbursement.

As child insists to dream,
Caricature wedding rehearsal,
As it was,
So it is;

The dentures and indentured,
Plotting twists & twisting plots,
As though a Rohypnol tangerine,
Were as close as some had seen,
To oblivion.

Iroquois Dolcimer

The fragrant aroma of napalm;
Here, in the country of
Narcissists and queens;
A demographic claimed
Through antiquity.

And arrogance perceived as fact,
With little migrant lulls between
Complacency and comprehension.

Right as the bell cracks,
I repair my bicycle and come,
Deep into her woods, where
Foxes have dens, and birds have nests;

Here I play “The Cricket,” on guitar,
Piecewise but fluently stroking out
The segments of the song.

Upturned

Declassification,
Of contemporary
Art staples;

Densification with a collaborative flair,
Justification of the wealthy,
The Greeter’s Garden;
Where symbiotic elements arise,
Percolating substance
Through a filter of fire.

And as the Holy Ghost,
Lays claim: Apocalyptic refrain,
A justification by faith,
Swerves and hits head-on;
The righteousness junkies,
And the heretic’s dormitory.

Holiday Inn Breakfast Platter

An obnoxious perimeter of scorpion blood;
Picking scabs on the first date,
Doesn’t matter just how deep they go.

Undigested clams;
Hot pans,
Bread baskets
Littering the pavement

Going home,
Taking the taxi
From one metronome
Stop to the next,
I do my best

To carry on a synthesis
Of reproductive disintegration,
Purging sounds and all around
The fires her heated temper.

North Korea

My Caramello smile,
It hurts for me to wear;
Drown out the plasma center
With phone calls,

And treat the
Nuclear Holocaust days
As a spiritual retreat;

Binding the medical doctors
To the oaths we take when
Night has fallen,
And the graves dispense
Of all their bones and flesh.

Speaking misogynistic pluralities,
While the melons mold,
And the old folks homes
Are gassed in silence,
Awaiting orders to pass the torch.