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The machines are shot with a naked lens,
my whores on benches watch
a turnstile of orange crates
and send me reeling to the place
behind flaps of long industrial plastic
where I don't speak

I yell at screens of american cities
and then at all europe--
poison myself luxuriously
at the hotel bar--deep to the side of

the hum of rolling luggage
incinerates personas myriad
to chair the choir,
to whip the violins with boys
who stain the modern air like thieves
and leave piano booths in labyrinth
so powerfully spinning.

The canvas of machines
is still moved by chaos,
but only inches forward
and carries its humps--the ocean
in a siphoned heat washes up
a thousand scoured eyeglasses

we watch each other bought and sold
through bottles melting on pistons--
the warhead's clasp
musicians hold themselves to life with
is teething loose to multiply
among the reeled-up nations.