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Poem

As the Dime Store sirens flared
bolts of irradiated invite,
my query was denied.
     Their pimp-striped pilots only moaned, 
     their lust fueled by encapsulated 
     stench carried only by toothless carnies 
     from the canyons. Canyons o’ Crazed Confliction. 
     And behind… the  dull dynamo hum.

I screamed for the Kelp Queen to come to me, 
her tresses woven wave-like in the wabe. 
My demands were simple. 
     The scars of the trucker's she must carry 
     (as war carries death) 
     for inbreeding has tainted her line.
     “Can Omaha be far?” she pleaded 
      and tugged at my inter-ache 

as tin balloons tug with time .   
“For you?” I replied in a 
flatulent belch.
     The boiling madness was by now 
     beyond the horizon but  kept in check
     still by the neon dogs crouching by day under the interchange.
     It is they who will now stalk the disease plagued ports 
     I sailed from so many 
                    days
                    and
                    images
                    ago.
 
Until her kleptic crew of vagrants and priests
sprint with me in postpartum harmony. 
Hipsters for TRUTH.

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