I'm a freak afraid of being abandoned
you're afraid of not being abandoned
let's enter hell. The stunned people
will meet the liquid people on Main Street
and fly a plastic dragon in the bottled-up air
just above their heads
as the sky thickens and the toothy mouths
move up and down. There's a fishing line
with a hook in both my chests
pulling me upward over the crowd,
and a fleet of psychotically chattering pumpkins
arranged on scaffoldings
near my other bruised head.

There are pigeons who used to be turtles
under some ancient sea. Their beaks and their eyes
tell our magazines to go under the earth.
And a glossy page turns in their eyes
and a centerfold opens in their mouths
as we toss a bread into that bird void.
Those skinny tongues moving up and down
and a pillowcase trampled in the street
from a bed that fell onto this planet
where our matrimonial house
was supposed to be. Our clothes are dirty,
we grope towards the flesh that was broken by police
in our Asian bodies
so many other continents ago.