POLYGON

not true, is it.
the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
whipping the violence into another storm, another storm.
---they left new orleans again, the sieve city, it holds no one.


not true, is it, the gospel truth of the wind and the rain
of the pale, amphibian wrinkles between each finger
the drunken saunter of baboons under baobab roofs

the stories that your grandfather would tell , looking out the window, convinced the plants were real,real, how could they be fake?plastic?no way,no way.

he liked boxing.

'one two punch; says life, to him, her, him and him,wearing earphones spitting into its mike
'what you gonna do baby' it says, like a funky action movie from the seventies,
black cop swinging his hips.


holy water running in rivulets out of every faucet in the nation!
or is it rust, is it blood?

is it jesus' face? what to we do, god damn, is this a sign?should i get my camera?




on her birthday she waters her cacti with wine coolers.eating smoked oysters and wearing those plastic slippers, see through, pink, kitten heels. feathers on the toes.




the light is out of the 'p' at the pick n sav and everyone has gone home.
it's small inside the car.the air is humming.



the small froth of lions laps at the corners of your mouth
the ships heave in the harbor

it's not true,but anyone could have figured that one out.