I wake up to cold pizza and a cup of coffee
“the breakfast of champions”
& so the daughters of Memory
riding in on the pale light
perform a little bump & grind
sworn to green scenes right out of the tide book
w/bubbles & like glistening
catalogs of subtropical flowers
printed on silk sleeves of fog
If I wasn’t there you’d have to
dream up someone else to talk to someone
else who wouldn’t listen because the song the
wind sings in the eucalyptus is cranked up to
10 on the voodoo dial & if you had wings
you’d probably make a similar sound
Sometimes my heart races like a vintage Corvette
w/a blown head-gasket
other times it’s more like a
rabid chihuahua
chained to a palm tree
in the rain
