#3 Mad Lipramble

avec Mark Follman and Jeanna Steele

Despite flies and the surfaces of flies,
and the eyes of brother-seeking eyes,
all trance-inducing trances
anger emerald doorjambs.

Lonely phosphorescent strumpets
croon songs of punkness,
pink tangelos careen up the Empire
State building.

Improper leers spring from deep jungle
stupas laced with charcoal,
burning in the cold night air.

A lonely puppy staggers three-footed
over ram horns and rubble,
dining on cow dung and other dainties,
effigies of Thor swing mightily
in the wind.

'Tis a high pleasure to be in the midst of all this
congestion, what with all the fireflies
crowded in our backpacks.

Damnation is, essentially, a thing of the past,
relegated to the likes of parachute pants
and the moonwalk.

We are the grand game,
mischievously cramming toothpicks in our mouths,
running windsprints down grassy knolls,
impersonating the mutts of Bora Bora;
8,000 Great Walls pound away at our earlobes.