Every boy and every girl
and every home
is wood-made and parallel today.
Suburbia's skunks are rarely seen
but we know they're around here
feasting with our mistresses
and the ghosts of our grandparents.

Such organic sunsets make me feel
like a burning-man kid: I want to flip cars
and bomb dams and give head for a decent bicycle.
I want to fall asleep already but
my mind is full of A's: artisan,
alphabet, anti meridiem,
and the sunrise is moon-stroked and astronautical.

After the moon
is a mild zen. Listen, watch and feel it:
Children sleep in.
Pots tumble in their cupboards.
Cells depart and then adapt.
Perverts on the telephone combat
the sweet birthday-gift smell of blue wind.