Newspapers crowned you,
Cradling your young head
Out of the royally pissed off womb
Into the plastic basket of all the other
Fancier, recyclable receptacles
In which the world held docile and hot
Its street food.
Intimately, a fence builds to one's own snug nerves
And blue as a blanket of rich blood
Leaves someone's feet shorted, uncovered to cold.
You're my best friend
And my longings still into
A produce stand on the side of a road
Wrecked with the unalloyed
Fruitful bond of love
Hammered rash into a bruised
Chain of itching smiles
Beyond twisted recognition
Or ointment forged when a thing intemperate
Of beauty leaves pure to forget how hemmed
By the barbed trousers of hard-wired origin.
We must refeather to eat all the small chickens
Until the shoebox of our leathery ribs
Senior-discounts itself into the open-air
Of a rickety Chinatown tour-bus.
Then, finally, porklike, electricity shall crackle from the snorting windowsill
Of our outstretched fingers and raise the singed hair
Aloft like subverted billboards along the unwashed nape
Of chicken-bone littered, coward-jaundiced street.
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