the kitchen sits
in fruit soup…
steamed apricot
mango shadow

down thru spinning
smoke into hot light
blink beat

Adept at alchemy we change nectar
to richest light-filled gold for Queen,
her Kings and thirsty hive.

You emerged a crimson flower, sour
from fermentation, radiating damp,
tepid, twice-born and sheared, piled densely
into plastic bags for street-side markets.

Driving out of the valley
stoked on lasting passion
I’ve decided to escape the scorched
roads and sands of Coachella
and go home for a visit
to Los Angles,

Pop music blares from storefronts, as I move
through them, the hungry boys in skinny jeans,
strutting with collars up, peacock hair, latest
smart phones flashing, the cute girls in dresses
and strappy sandals, flouncing the shopping street.

Put a haggard dollar in his cup
This Monte shill blows
Mumbo and frozen
Breath to fog a mirror
For you to scratch your ancient
Hieroglyphs of terror and despair

Your idea of a kind of success
lickspittle
is to be drunk on the saliva of your masters
spitting profusely
pardon Flaubert this obtrusion of the ridiculous upon the sublime
afflatus and effluvia