Monday morning
has a way of slipping
into Friday
afternoon
but we bubble
along as though nothing
happened
low-riding
beneath the weather
irrevocably
stoned
& stalling
out on the sand-swept pavement
stretching far
& away
&
my smog blue eyes go blank
like
the slick rock of exposed tidepools
because whenever you flip a coin
I always call the darkside
remembering your
reflection in a burnt spoon
like the face of
Elvis in a tortilla
w/that sneer of
cold command
hip &
disdainful
but cormorants
slice the sky into quatrains anyway
& the domino
effect is more like a
flotation device
than a popsicle
wrapped in a 20
dollar bill
the balance in
trade
walking in on
flames
like Mayakovsky
w/a dog named
Snake Eyes
