Saturday, September 03, 2011


Cartoon angels, with masking tape lungs,
the ports of your plugs are all crackling.
We greet people with spearmint wind
and deliver smooth monologues
as we gingerly slope to the dirt.
Walking along the High Line
with fake mustaches and wigs
we are totally unrecognizable.
Under the milk moon
we balance what dazzles us
on silver trays like medicated servants.
In our pockets is a blank divinity.
I want you to stop feeling like there
is a camera on you all the time.
This self awareness thing can be
paralyzing. You might have
approximately five more times
in your life when you feel totally secure
so plant yourself before a panorama
and scratch your head awake
to the creamy tone of a tenor saxophone.


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