Big full moon
rising supersonic fast leaving your desiccated stomach hung low on the ground
in the middle of the little big custard horn.
Rising
t’rrifically drunk w/the Mexican chivas revolutionaries and their shiny
well-groomed satellites skimming a desperate whistle for the quick payola and a
Castro cigar.
Now me,
going full outta
sight to fill up a hollow scoop in near space where I can be alone for a while.
Where I can hover in pagan magnitude inside a yellow t-cup w/a fastened
vibration and a Tommy Lee drum solo.
@
Orbiting hawkeye
of the goddess Diamonijk in synchronous line w/the #2 pencil axis made of
wrinkled faux teak. In line w/the bent nickels n dirty dimes scratching the Cadillac
paint off an elated 90° compass wink.
Directing the cosmonauts
w/an abandoned horizon on their melodramatic way out
their sobering
and lonesome hatches.
Giving them
sample size freebies of Kazakh vodka so they’ll have fresh stories to rehash
w/1st morning’s
bad breath
blink.
Black market
cigarettes.
Cough kopf.
@
Orbiting within
spitting range of the rose garden neighborettes tanning naked for the ca$hola
and the petrified llamas imitating the Peruvian spit.
Hawkeye on the Gemini
custard like I know nemesis does to me.
Hawkeye oxygen
frozen to the marvelous stare
and the art form
T .
. .
Victor Millan
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