I've got a bad orange circuitry
flaring up in the nervous place
employers call my body. help the clouds,

flatten the ice cream trucks until
they are pure sound, until they
don't ring their bells.

darling with the cone, help me make
these terrible decisions on the sidewalk.

the sidewalk has measles and the trees are damp
not quite like a series of wounds.

the kisses you gave me are burning
the white paint on big brick walls
and showing an old red, burnished by time

and televisions punched out, painting
those who are asleep forever--which is
a short time for them--painting those
who are asleep forever in the smashed
tubes.