Heaven #3

Hushed as a fishtank amongst the cock-eyed stars

* * *

The stars aren’t flowing downstream they’re static

* * *

Eating tortellini with pesto & just the proper shower of black pepper &
slices of Granny Smith apple

* * *

I suppose the desert’s just another big sky-blue American car you can sleep in

* * *

The gray sky kind of cracking at 5:00 a.m.

* * *

A humungous iceskating palace crammed to the rafters w/rusted
        Chevies
The windows don’t open & it’s raining

* * *

The stars hung to dry over Mission Dolores, probably
sad themselves; we were having a perfectly sober chat about
                                                                                        domestic life

* * *

Feeling categorically empty at the bottom of the well
surrounded by tarnished pennies

* * *

The mailman was extremely, one might say perilously, late that day

* * *

Somewhere it’s midnight in an peach orchard where Max is
strumming a mandolin in lieu of gathering fruit

* * *

Cat’s-eye shades that yearn to be butterflies. A yen for gothic literature.

* * *

A teacup filled w/evil conundrums & blue eye shadow. A cigarette holder that doubles as a letter opener. The mailman delivers.

* * *

A mirage, a gasoline stain smearing rainbows across the pavement
until it shimmers into a dim glimmery swimming pool.

* * *

Dilapidated hurachi sandals slapping anapests

* * *

Fire trucks

* * *

There was such a profusion of golf balls orbiting the earth at that precise latitude. You could see them day or night, marking perfect parabolas, with a yen to become true satellites.

* * *

A peasoupgreen trolley car an easter bonnet an elmtree

Jack Hayes
© 1990-2010