Memories of Childhood

I imagined the murderers were at my door those years before the stalkers stalked the stalk.
Plant life is eternal – growing, growing, growing – owing it all to the man who loves them.
Calamity strikes again! Stronger than when we drenched ourselves in hot acid and burnt through the floor.
We’re all made of melting clay and our beards, scarf’s wool. Sheep in a heap, gone to sleep.
St. Martin’s School for the Terminally Legless taught me how to read novels and dirty textbooks.
You, the Taiwanese government, taught me how to face the facts, screaming like a man machine.
You, the huckster with an iron clasp, beat me into shape before we dined in the Earth’s core.
You, the man with a torn down face, breathed hot vomit down the length of my shirtsleeves.
You, ribald giant of the poetasters, tasted my magnum-open faced sandwich with a sour face.
You, erotic soldier of the Phallic Coalition, smoked a cigarette in the alley after the award ceremony.
You, proprietor of this Satanic honky-tonk, threw the haughty bassist out the door for not grooving.
You, Sultan of New York, served the Cornish game hen on golden plates but only had plastic utensils.
Is this Los Angeles?
Are we the graying bodies of two old men listening to talk radio somewhere in Vermont?
Is this Pine Ridge, Oklahoma?
Where we played with our bodies in the damn near deadly sunlight?
Of course it is.
Of course it is.