There’s still space on the star-lit streets
for smashed pancake crepe styrofoam cartons
parting my commercial from my residence,
presenting the present o’ presenceless.
It all makes senselessness.
I love the black boughs so snug in the black sky so tight in this black universe
so terse.
But I don’t like the seekers,
the flashbulb communicators on Fords,
causing rings spinning on my orbs.
They think I killed the crepes in wrath,
dashed its guts gainst the concrete just like that,
oozing milk ‘way out into the atomsphere,
smeared spheres o’er caking pebble
trembling under radio wave wheels,
peeled off like cotton masks…
But I’m not like that.
& I crack…le…
But there’s still space in this misplaced road,
known desolate by all who ne’er take it—
they only stay there, though they ne’er come.
That’s why the white crepe blood still runs,
splattering my black canvas in big drips
till the sun comes up.
It all makes none.
