He ties off his kidneys & searches
for mushrooms. He has stopped

drinking, has stopped bench presses, has
stopped the remainder of his Tupperware

parties. He leads an active
life--deals opera, is a boxcar

dancer, is a hustler of rare antiques. Of course, he
pushes for land reform and is coming

to my house where he will show
me how to steal

 kisses from nuns. I'm
building a shrine for the arrival. I'm replacing

beer cans with nunchucks, all the candles
smell like headbands.

O, Frank Stallone,
I have had enough gasoline.

Nazi like a cold star; block parties have my war in the black flag
style. The tight kids wear helmets & parade their fashion down
Division Street: east/west, the sharks & the jets are swallowed by
ruined Tibetans & New York depravity, as the polemics of concrete
warble in lock-step. O. punk. O, veiled leather death.

Apollo is never punctual: the warbling of gray sinuses swallow the
high-life; static heartbreaks. This lunar module is not an exact
science. Not an exact replica of a cosmonaut's heart. See the face of
the drunken balladeer deep in his missteps. Our fine young astronauts;
ground control; baseball scores. Old squire--my lover.