A thin blonde woman is kidnapped by the shadow of a city bus,
The same thirsty door that my southern thought-sprawl must,
Must obey to escape the humidity of this suit and tie.
My captor hordes my mail in the back of a brown station wagon
With a prolife bumper sticker.
The loud groan reaches all the way back to the handgun
In my trench coat pocket and my fever is finally cooled
By a wave of blue exhaust fumes, and even though I’m wearing it,
My suit and tie is headless.
No one can save the printing presses in this shadow’s
Doorway from worshipping the blonde woman,
Who won’t be freed until muzak is loved by all.
The Sun has set my mail ablaze on the front page of “Cowboy Times.”
Gasoline has been used to mop the floor, all the way
To the corner I’m in, where a clock has replaced my head.
It’s easy to make a cross on my forehead now,
With the ashes of my bills returned to me in a wheelbarrow,
From the graves of duality. Soldiers
Are buried there, surrounding the statue of a crowned dog
On a throne. The entrance to the White House Castle has electric shadows,
Cast from caskets that are held together with duct tape;
A graveyard in the Grand Canyon of the Blues:
Our war economy, entered through the laundry room
Of Hitler’s brain, where colors are separated. Once inside
The castle, his busywork attempts to diminish the universe
Of one work of art by comparing it to another:
A tall stack of unframed, original paintings
Moved, a picture at a time, onto a second stack
Next to it.
