Burial Ceremony

click three times

at unfamiliar animals,

that noise, with your tongue

curled up

down to the back of your throat… balance

beer cans

at 45 degree angles, and think deeply, looking like a mystic, or some spiritual

guide

type of person who knows lots about energy and paths and maybe even

mountains when

the subject of coke

comes up

around a glass table…might as well be the 70’s,

with The Fugitive wearing an imitation

white

mink coat (cut nice for feminine hips…but…) he’s a sailor, merchant marine, navy kind of kid

of some sort and so the mix…unbalanced, but there’s one on roller skates- strictly slitted by nature- but dominatrix nurture doesn’t hurt matters much, also movies I’ve made her watch- she’s doing the perfect circle bit

across green-white streaked marble, nipplighthouses out

of the white tank top, wink one,

wink the other…phone rings and I answer, north pole, its The Penguin, and

‘Karim,

the windows stuck down again…’ distraction…I zip up and race off (sometimes typing one handed,

eyes on posing…) an autoerotic author,

beats…Most of these things

lead to a dead horse. There’s one next to me now, not a hundred percent dead, but

I don’t see resuscitation in the future, and this poor fucker, this guy,

he was built for wooden boxes that usually run 6 feet in length,

get covered with 6 feet of dirt and lost soul or not, disembodied

entity

or alter

ego, regardless of which…Other day I noticed a patch off Mill River road, just itching, red mango ripe, for a guy’s got a shovel…also determination, like umbilical cord yet,

same as old-time stockade, choices made and all…I’m sorry John (notice

the capitalization) but certain things, pebbles, stones, boulders, rockslides and all, pitfalls and one foot leading the other, easy free ride through…I was

just another monkey on your back, a stray hair bulging thick, something you’d pluck out if you caught sight of in the mirror and now…saying goodbye’s the

only

thing left