above Colorado

My meds weave a trail

back to Pick Back Hill

where my dreams have gotten

so strange and habitual I fear

we’re all prone

to their odd tectonics.


I’m auctioning gifts

from the unfriended.

An unclean class

which had my doubts

all along.


But that’s not the point

right now. Right now

five bucks gets ya

a Pan Am ashtray

from Flight 369

that last was seen

right before Roswell

in that azure space

above Colorado.


Where the sit-com substance

of bipolar kin

are betting on brain scans

and the bidding is low.



The acid was prime he’d beam,

brothel bound during MK-Ultra.

But it backfired he’d boast.

His jaw slack, his eyes accepting

the last Bronx light. I didn’t fall

to the mind control and followed the Dead



Jerry’s leads were elliptical he’d burn

and begin again. After the acid swept the shit away

I saw the futility of fighting each other.

So I swore upon that value

and lie here unafraid.


Our Town

There were no birds

and thus no sound but

the working of men

against themselves.

The wails of women

violated. The prayer of lambs

doused w/gas.


There were no birds

and thus the sky was black.

Bruised. The stars in hiding.

The sun in retreat. The moon

a pale frustration.

chip pix 203



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