i'm on the shoulder of the Broadway exit, my feet are cankered
my soul is quiet as I gaze out on the Spanish tile rooftops
where the calcified lives are laid out like a Rubix cube of
tudors and boutique shops.

people atop this crucifix of broad daylight, scything with heaven's light
the art of synchronizing the flawed remarks with the winds that travel in the universe's hallway, those nebulous conversations breathing with the strings of an atomic theory, with dry desire locked up in Jupiter's tower, with socialites barred out and all the wounds of my sufferings healed up from language lashings on the deck of the diamond sidewalk.

and the lines of flight were catalogued in the wild hearts that terrified the simple minds without a light, the answers of serious questions came upon us like a hurricane tearing down the crystaline cathedral dedicated to milk and gumdrops, and a cautious handsome god who raised his shoulders in an act of surrender so that old grandmothers may tell their grandchildren stories about the Santa Claus god who parceled packages of the spirit like an assembly line worker placing mechanical parts to fill the orders of the longest walk to the shoulder of the freeway, to the ribcage of the airport, to the delicate wristbones of the pier.

and the holes were stuck between the cashier and customer in the decaying flaming markets where loss is what they have to give and gifts are what made us live in the slight aisles where all the frost was forming.

they put engines on aeroplanes to make them mad with power and put chains on bicycles to keep them from quickly roaming, they put wheels on grocery carts
to turn the rattled cage across the desert of produced trash they call divine, supple, and soul bonding. they drank upon the stack of bodies like two gladiators
who had just finished for the first time all their warring, and they sleep
upon the fettered bed stained in blood, its feathers red, and drank themselves
to stupidity with empty wine bottles that showed the color of emeralds in the
young light of some blue steel morning.

it is always about a girl
it is always about a boy
who got sick of being some human toy
and smashed the store to its iron moorings

its always about parents
its always about the gods
and its always about you and me,
this paper land i've managed to built
where we can pretend with alphabets
that we are free

i'm on the shoulder of the freeway, the divine trash is conspiring to smile down the beatific vision of some ancient math that buried all the meanings in its measures,
i'm on the collar of the skyscraper, watching beetles crawl by in candy colored shells
i'm on the nose of the archaic mountain, freezing my ass off in a wind that smells of soft orange rinds gathering the forest dew in a swath of mottled glory
i'm on the fingertip of catastrophe's handprint as it stamps out all the sand bees with calloused palm and observes with touch the sweet crescent of the secret beach like a gallery of granules mote-speckled and periwinkled, sand piper flecked and opaleye fingered, i'm on the worst of it, i'm on the best of it, and i'm on to both of you who weren't willing to begin to comprehend, and i'm on the motion of a curvaceous valley that sings with its condensation the sweetened veil of a woman's song.