“King Kong Blues”

Browsing old books
catalogs of donuts – my coffee break has
ended, so did the twang song
smogging the radio, draining the sky
from freshly fallen policeman – feet in
donuts, old catalogs of books, in the library
of excess, whoever reads the story
flushes wind through a random chimney
the story’s a robe of lawnmowers, speeding
thru the main dream, sobbing, drowning in drifting
slangs of e-music

Freedom not only means
being free
of the rushing street, of the soft race
it means kissing the coyote’s forehead
howling w/ him and the antennae, not so far
from your bed, which lover poppy took outside
so you could write w/ the stars

I miss the odd flow of eons
parachuting memories
on nosy thinkers
who’re sure they’ve seen thru my world
I found a well-used book
too torn for me to take home
too dirty
to read in bed
& way too expensive for a random whistler
of a soupy poetic song
but someone once read it, & someone once had it
w/ her, cause traces of lipstick, for him, cause
nicotine spills, who bought this damn thing ages
prowler before – bather in the sun street
sleeper in the star saw noise
tried selling it back to me

Bad deal, brother,
me I got my case
of King Kong blues back home
where goddess black of swamp realms
beats my voodoo nihil
years & years & on, waiting for the ship
to chain the ape back home