I wish that I could be
with alice. Her mother and the
older man who she rests with
call down to me on sunday mornings
pickled blue with the juniper
sludge and fragrantly belching
out curses towards the sun in
such a way that I am amused at the
potential magic they must posess.
I wish I could be with alice when
on Saturday evenings the television
loses it's podium and reclines gently
behind a drape. Softly sleeping,
a greay burial mask of dust coddling
and puffing on it's cheeks. Her family is
renowned. Reknowned(?) for their worth
For their shadow theater. What we see behind
the blinds when we gawk from the street.
I heard once that her mother,
In the severity of a cold dew-soaked summer dawn,
coughed up a ring of marihuana smoke.
Immediately across the courtyard she waved,
and then with the strokishly perverted weight
of the pope's less-nimble wrists she blew a kiss,
hand covered in a lake of dried semen.
These days it seems, i wish only
for the air that floated above that milky
death and it's sour sweet demands.