I Won’t Disguise Myself As A Steakhouse for the Wealthy

Now’s the ascension of the Orange Monkey;
deodorize my ears as he stammers from the Boughs of the Gold-Plated,
and let the Impressionist Tableaux sweating in Los Angeles museums
ooze purple & blue toadstools beneath the oven-sun;
let the clouds yawn, then snoop back into a squint of drought like
a self-puckering asshole seeking the company of polyps.

Enough months of linen and lemons as weighty as a bull’s testicles;
I was spoon-fed a granularity of cardboard and sugar
which militaries use as housing for hurricane victims,
or as hair-dye for a Slavic distension whose breasts
have ballooned memes slathered with mayonnaise.

Now’s the ascension of the Orange Monkey,
and Ariadne’s running amok, gleeful,
in her labyrinth on the sunny side of delirium.

I can despise the fruit dangling from Orange Monkey’s lowest branches,
as luscious as bacteria basting a freshly used latex glove.

Perfume-pump the few words not yet chained,
and let them rise above the topmost branches
before hornets zip them into bits of confetti.
But no one will be collecting the shards of color.
No one—soon—will waltz without a mask.

Mace and a heavy dosage of TNT won’t cure you of necrotic newsreels.

Some say the statues of saints have rang doorbells,
asking for a place to stay,
and if they can crash on the couch.

I try to stay in shape, on my mark,
ready to go.

I explode the host of leather methane-gas-bags;
I tight-rope-walk the eyebrows of crooked stock-charts;
I glue arsenic to the teeth of newspapers kissing mendacities;
but I fail when it comes to a sudden splendor of butterfly,
when remembering why my youth rattles a boxcar across fields below zero,
and I fail when listening to the better wisdom
of a chained dog howling in a warehouse.

Ah! There are some tomorrows too distant,
like sunlight on a bather’s hips, She
who turns the rum galleons back on their heels,
some tomorrows where everything breaks beforehand,
because the Jackals want you to dress up as a waiter
for surgery on broken hearts,
because many clamor for a steakhouse above the slums,
with a neon sign made of polysynthetic flutes & smiling tumors.

Don’t be fooled by that skyscraper.
It’s the Tree of Stoopid,
the Tree of coiffures that code one milkshake for a thousand Bolivian hens,
the Tree of titanium tirades, small orgasms injected into mouthfuls of heartburn,
the Tree with roots that snag 1,000 miles below the ocean’s surface,
only to surface and
froth pesticides into the breast-milk of Icelandic mothers.

Oh the Monkey, he’s Orange, Golden,
like microwaved cough-syrup gooped on canapés of Mandarin nightmare.
Take care, the Dakota fields they combust,
take care, the Antillean isles aching
in their loins like an adolescent kicked to the strip-club’s curb;
take cover the African lion, the domesticated zebra, and the coal of Pennsylvania;
there are gasmasks giftwrapped for you,
projectiles that vibrate and bing at you,
hallways longer than midnight,
painted white,
and that won’t dry their interrogation light
until the Tree of Stoopid blazes, carbonizes, and falls.

What astounds me…
is how the crumple of cry in the lily,
the mitochondria’s steam-engine-chugging & tenacity,
not to mention the seasons’ rusty wheels,
or the burst of blue-whale over surface
then his plunge as his baleen sieve steals
8,000 lbs. of krill,
how all of that
may continue.

This fragile glass of the world wilts me,
while I knuckle a turnip too bloody.