You carry your head in parchment
You toot a horn and light a fuse.
Though asleep, your head itches
Your head has been severed again
to the specialist.
You win a sweepstakes
and swim in the neon blue
of webpages, dabble in water
and plumes of metallic confetti.
Girls spray from the white-hot dervish,
women gather around you.
What heaven is that you turn from,
sweaty-backed hulk, to turn
to another, full of orchids, full of fish?
on an unfamiliar pillow. You drool
like the idiot marrying a wooden horse,
twitch as your eyes beneath their lids
go back and forth from desert to ocean,
ocean to desert, freshly turned earth
between them. Tendrils poke upward and curl.
and you discuss this with interest
with another headless soul. Oh what will we do?
But, more interestingly, why? The solution
is to wake and walk to the bathroom
through coffee's scented hook, embarrassed
by Good morning and a slackening penis.
from May, 2000 issue