Monday, September 14, 2009

Untitled Poem #2


Beneath the great crucifix
many a hot night
perfume sin in the neon light

Sucking back the American air
visions of girls with hay colored hair

"Ritual", the wise man whistled,
"Even dogs know there's more flavor in the gristle"

So, back to the ashes
liquor slicked highway
eloquent scratches on his ivory back,
winding through the heart of the city
and mountain cataracts.


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