Dulcinea

The auto-pilot knows her best
A paroxysm of quixotic electro-shock blues
entangles you into
the mysterious production of eggs.

She’s stereopathetic soulmanure:
A pale coil of stamps
a rift in the perforated edges
She’s an audit in Our World’s Divorce
We have the facts and we’re voting “yes;”
Escape these paegan terrorist attacks through
chutes too narrow.

Which one’s you?
Have you fed the (acoustic) fish.
Have you fixed a comforting thought.
Show your bones, you Loup Garou!
“There’s No Body to Battle When Your Mind Is Your Might”
howls the Woman King.

It’s okay if you’re lost
It’s early A.M. when the clouds all taste metallic
when the motorcade of generosity
filters in like The Delivery Man
like a version of yourself
after the soma project has sunk in
after tears brim out of the vein

These are the strategic grill locations
These are the sketches for my sweetheart,
the drunken moonflower plastic twig
whose little spaces dilate
whose happiness is not a fish
you can catch.

Ruby Vroom,
She’ll capture you
She’ll drown you in an ass-pocket of whiskey
Deja-voo doo you
She courted a vintage burden
and love said “no”.