I rode the earth with a tinfoil face
plastered to my being, feet wrapped in oil
and seran, tomato of lysergic time
breaking in my mouth.
The moon spoke like a wheel.
All the houses of the city
were arrayed like huge daggers
to await a blessing with violence.
Valleys of clay and concrete
that eat a train in lipstick gridiron.
Pouring smoke that turns
to heavy water in a falling hand.
Death angels that sprinkle
cinnamon on early graves,
laughing at the salt paths
laced with blood that radiate
cells and slope off toward
the drunken sky.  Temples of wheat
curving over stone ghosts and leaking
dawn light on forsaken prairies
where the hedgehog gets lost in a sound
from his own nose.