Toasters melt to the swelty-swelter.
Bolts and dinosaurs and sky all goop together
into liquid faces that touch the Sun.
That roadway heat and breeze; that tone.
That euphoric unknown.
My feet bare and blistered.
Graveling the ground, the grass, the moments;
Moments of thinking as each bird does, each hill, each lovely plastic shard.
Scapes wear their worn-ups and their keys to places, places of elsewhere, of where winds on rivers and
highway rails blanket and blush.
Touch my chin, touch my face, those windy-winds.
Out of the dark, and dreams, and places where them men stole at my flesh.
Them men with evil teeth.
Them men that made their tapes; their videos.
My blood naked hopes.
That tomato soup, that fuzzy Johnny Carson, that mattress.
They brought friends, little friends, little lovers, little people for me to love.
They made spurts, like phosphorus, their boxes of reels and conduit cords; pluggy-plugs.
They worshipped ceiling gods and the things they said; the dust as it fell between the beams of light.
Power-nerve-server wires n gyres radiating back, men and eye-sockets, places to put your faith into.
Places of the drippy-drip.
And they smiled and smiled. Them men; in shadowy bent forms.
Them men that stole my flesh.
I run breathe gone,
On tracks of long-stretch, pieces of existence put to motion moving face to face.
Chrome wooded pulp and lippy-lips.
I and that spirit of Roland, that headless trench-jack, that black-jack, that man without a head.
We tongue along gaps of crystalline earth, taste the places gone, the places once been.
Our faces shine of burnt been happenings.
Our edges tug like black flickers, mean flickers of madness.
That molten sky.
Those lost kids, those lost little thoughts, they:::
They find a human-hand in a field, everything is wet, the leaves the sky the faces dripping.
A skinny boy who wears girls’ dresses, that flowery-little-soaked-dressy-dress, he took that hand away from our eyes, he took it to the river, and the world has it now.
The world has that hand now.
Little Magnavox-shell Zippy: the baby who sleeps in a gutted television.
Zippy and his turtley-television-shell.
Little baby-face, little baby.
His brother is a dog-boy, unbroken, fleshing on flesh of dark tastes and truths.
He licks his knife for fun and the fun licks the air, and those he holds in wet places,
and those he holds.