When the seaweed was in bloom

She may have sifted down
thru the grillwork of heaven
but I’m still paddling thru the quicksand
as her spine recalls
the slight curve in the palm tree
which shapes the wind I suppose
whenever a herd of gulls flap scatter into empty air

The neon innuendo the
hosanna of broken glass the rubble
we’re buried in the complete english poems
& selected sunsets of Chinatown
underwater
                              I have stood on the street there w/my
                                                chow mein & notebook
              along with the bruise to prove it
despite the opium dream of every
blessed morning diluted with coffee
& introspection
                              & it’s like a grip of smoke
              where the strings of my
                              demolished harpsichord snap in the
              vast tidal sweep
                                                on a moonlight drive
                              off the end of the pier
gunning the engine
& chasing down the starlet who wears crooked shoes

I’ve got a pipe bomb in the tank
& she’s got black silk eyes