in close outer space
there is a scorched gas station
where a girl waits on the customer side
of the counter with burned cash
in her hand I run the numbering
tagging instruments with neon tinted knuckles
pull fried chicken's wings
out of the speakers on each ear
of the stereo, concrete widens
covering more and more
with coolness in freeway world,
all barriers are made of plastic

police ribbons all adrip with ejaculate
grandma's smoke solitaire living room couch
echoes of our cash register clang
lovemaking paid hour after hour
moss frame pictures in darkest hall
crafted by dim explosives toward puppet dark
of stuffed animal pillow prism land,
our android foreheads a lacework
of quilted rainbow unicorn horns deeply up
the pulse of pure-hearted rectums,

palace of white yellow air
in the barn-stained afternoon,
aunt's face folded deep marked in a book
as the garage melts open
onto melted driveway dead
cat in black and white clitoral pebbles
paving pineneedle streaked with cone rain
toward path magnetized
on the mouth of a basketball hoop
net wobbling like drool
wind diced fragmented by goldenrod blades,
roofs one story above thriving gardens sprinkling
speck minerals into hyacinth throats naked
robot growth face of crooked violent sunflowers.