Texty: Subtle. Other. Call To Dive.

The lids on Streetlights peel back

to reveal row upon row of bulging black bird eye.

all gorged out toward you like exotic zoo snakes

heaped up on fiberglass rocks,

fat with farmed rats coaxed down their throat...



below them in their brights,

tilt finished arrows beached up on thin tin signs.

and where its corrugated stem injects into cement

there is a deep fried breastbone,

popping hard half ate on a rich red curb...



all at once,

this moment has no mercy on your color find eye's

stole blues version of oakland...

as you make for thin ice on your you on you violent night.



the next morning everything begins again over a walk,

past a few balloons tied to a lovesick car-salesman's wrist.

you press on...

a soft bicycle wheel chained up

behind a savage looking pair of women's dress shoes,

abandoned to the left of a tire tread pressed dead pigeon

lain askew in more rich rose colored gutter.



there...there...

temperature taking your skin,

tinged city wind catching air

on your pleasantly imperfect and c-section shaped skull.



For once forget your headed to the mailbox

to drop more finished bills down to its gut...

even though for all you know...

that's about as far as those things ever go.



as sad as it is so,

kids today will never wear the perfect cape of clean air.

nor one true brand new brazier of sheer luck...



or does someone out there still expect that...

the way a moth gives freely of itself unto the bulb.



they will not learn their lesson from a teachers copy

of a blackened lung, hung in the classroom, on the coat rack...

or left dripping in the closet during math minutes passing.

nor from a nice new globe made of gold, cast in the shape of a half eaten apple...



not until...

the sun is on a stick.

the moon hung on a hook.



desperate times call for step by step schematics of the human dive.



The end...



(one mile of week&will later)



a sunset interjects.

donating the kind of red you only see in stores.

affording yourself a bit more reality,

some singular mood polarity .



If you could, you'd have a close friend

drive you off into the sinking pinks.