or two,
he said,
I have been fried
like a TV antenna.
I said,
If you walk along a volcano’s edge,
smoke only
toward the sky;
It’ll stick to your fiber.
You ever seen
the show being made? he asked
politely.
No, but I’ve worn
all pink to the
MayDay parade.
Neuro baby,
he said, take a slow walk
around the Christmas
of it all.
On Saturday nights
in the state of matrimony,
ashes,
silver,
mind-altering wine.
