recipes for dreams and blood streams

Because

it was all Daniel

in the lion's den,

and miniature loaves

of Wonder Bread. Black

widow spiders in the vines.

and I didn't have a broom

to ride to see the Wizard of Oz

so I'd have to walk.

Past indian chief

hood ornaments

and Coca Cola bottling plants

with a window onto Main Street.

Unaware of the avocado rugs

and burnt tangerine refrigerators

and Farrah Fawcett hair

and nine Middle Eastern wars

I had to look forward to.

Because my soul

was destined to be

a California river,

in flood or dribble

and extermination standoffs

and sweet nights in the desert

or under sun-striped

redwood shadows

on June fuck afternoons.

Meanwhile, the blood code

passed me by, these molecules

of my body arranged like this

for a very temporary while.

Like a thirty minute sunrise

before the spectrum

shrinks from the sublime

indescribable hues

to the daily monotony of blue.

With an appointment

at the crematorium or the graveyard.

(date to be determined.)

I dreamt of elk.

and smelt their fur

and felt their rut

before the bleating

of the clock erased

the meadow and the street.

Ah, the orbit and the axis

shared with prostitutes

and plankton,

what could be more sweet?

Soon enough to be forgotten

like a candy wrapper in the street.