Massive cordials of the codeblockers.  Nuremberg night, reckless abandon, the dull scritch of the afghan nails on the motor plane.  Can’t fix the old bell of the derringer, the tile floors glistening wet in the bright hall, the motorcade fellatio of the rented owl, the who done it posterior, the mexican finish.  Bright globs burst in the phoenix mane, the tilting bird comes to rest in the dune of pichiagos, granules in high speed come to a still, and the blanket of hot baked air settles over the monolith and dreams and dram.

Kaleidoscope mountain.  Angry children cry for a watering moon.  Everywhere they look they see the same thing in valapariso, jerusalem, bangkok.  They poor blood on the steps of their leaders.  Follow the dollar and grim butchers round the brick corner into the back alley where mauling mangy cats gyrate rape.  Birch bark canoes flowing down the danube with peacock feathers and fuzzy noses turns oblique into the waterfall beating into the mansion below with the serene pool and outdoor hockey rink for the savory turns of the empty fortune.  Bracketed breakfast at the wicker table, bow and walk away and follow them into the concrete servants’ quarters where the crescent sun burns into their irises, the palm fronds sway and scrape like canvas bags dragged across the parched desert floor, the hanging heavy shoulders trudge along the cracks of the earth, all bleeds sweat and tears, the skin pops and boils, the shadows of the cats are all that’s left, mirage ghosts mirroring the moves of the gulag, stealth and silent, the shadows elongated over the hardscrabble earth by a failing, molecular sun.

Sit and cross your legs on a kelly green bench, news coming in on the wire, turning pages.  Slather on the sun tan lotion.  Make the potions that reek through the bubbles of brandy and brandywine fervor.  Take pains against the white sterile mill of the temple.  Roadblock the assassins.  Petrify the deep granite.  Filch the moribund news some more, turn the page, the symbols dance and breed.