And it was the crack of a symmetrical dawn

lepers hanging clothes with no sleeves

legless pants

heartless armor

the sieve where all the heart pulp runs through and through

straining the anguish with a lightning-tied spoon

4-leaf clovers come raining from the sky

and he drives his Mercedes into a crowd of 12 oblivious jabberjaws

The madman drank tea laced with the rosaria radiation

and now he’s a drunk moose on the loose

toting way too much baggage

and dulled antlers spit-shined by the man in the moon

that circle of meteor-pocked cheese

that rolls through the sparkly galaxy

all around our human minutia of dawn and pain and anguish

and slices of Snow White’s poisoned apple pie

and every alien addict crop circle

spins like witches’ eyes

on a psychedelic trip in some thick, green forest

chasing Hansel and Gretel with an electric staple gun

collating the folds of their skin like clockwork

and the tears shed in the hills

rush down like the world’s greatest flood

disaster ten-fold obtuse

those angels of deceit, lavished with wet, weepy memories

and the passion that burned like the most vicious lava

And there’s a fat, orange Koi fish

swimming in a pool so circular and blue

and every dirt heap is but another mountain

to rip your crampons into

and climb to Heaven

to spit in the face of God’s guard of Oz

then singing a melancholy yet smashing tune

about the blindness he feels and sees

toward forgiveness and love and inequality by the ocean

the composer from Beach Bum and Rum California

ever etching his mind into the wires that run rampant

amongst the drunks, the princess poets

and all their invisible beings on Pad Street

the place with no signs for hands

or a pen in which to paint

the eternal ache

of holding on

to bare bones

and no flesh

in the sinister quiet

of lonely places

like the foggy docks

or the steamy forests

or the buggy riverside

with all its ebbing currents

preaching the sermon of beautiful emptiness

in harmony with the dirt, the love, the wet life

the chiseled core drips down through the dusty siphon

of all these tubular engines whizzing by

the sights of all minds buttered and plastered into holes

that mean street brick and wooden coffeehouse,

a quiet, cradling tram ride to Cardiff,

staring out the window, with no warmth or warning of her