Fried walkways

with wax leaves glinting

hero of the big

grease trash can,

grinning desperado

glowing with the salt

of disintegrated worlds,

staring upward from many graves

many bright rectangles

fevered sets of eyes

that have never gone out

doors of light ripping down

the machinery of night,

switches flipped that sing

to long indifferent cords

while soft lamps

are smoking and talking,

black crows cawing

on a spliff scarred windowsill,

chair turning

in a polished impossible void,

the sun as a rose that never moves

is a death I can't fake,

the steel of days down the drain

paws back to my loaded cell,

I can't leak rays on arcs

that bend in the rain,

my leash is frayed with travel

on a torso ranked beyond

somewhere where hot dogs are cooking

and coffee is cooled

on cuboid embers of locked water,

I am sitting on a crate

that comes to lambent ooze.