Pegs with beseeching hands
jutting from the lacquered forehead.

His reamed senses, his vulnerable armor
clattering through an electric wormhole.

A Christ of the refrigerator,
crucified on his careful snacks,
nimbus bottomed by beige slacks
and a shitty sweater.

Beckoning to the tide
through the sunset
that rides his party deck.

The skeleton beneath the sex
the infinite's need for unpaid
complex connection, branching
enfolded buds from exploding blood.