We Sit Like Urinals in the Sun

The sabbath is crawling to the tongue
words longing for rest
a major defeat for the literates and the aslyumites
my voice is collecting in monetary tones
bumming a nickel with inflections
so tamed and tapered that a negative G rating
need only apply
drawing out a wounded nap
the pickle soaked in whiskey
the tree growing legs and running
the hills are the eyelashes of the meteorite
I lay panting with my hooves in the sand
lapping at the dust
seeing images:

a torn dress
a spray painted turtle
a forgotten female lubricant
a major league baseball team in drag
a chicken on fire
a funeral home doorway

it's a sad vertigo
the hammered lives we live
into
out of
doorways revolving and evolving
a master of disguise
a midget with a sword
a bad mother on pills
a hang-glider in the wind
dangerous going over
to scared to cross
we recoil like cold snakes
and wait to strike at
whoever our vengeance sees fit to hit
and it is like this with everyone
always . . .

I see an image:

a blueberry penny
a muted toilet
a trumpet in the mud
a Spanish bull covered in blood
my aging face in the mirror.