we

our city is dead
we
prop up the body
we
live with it
stinking
carcass
we
love with it

we
build a coffin around it
heap the concrete
steel asphalt into
our own image
our own imagination
our own imitation
of anti-ness

our city is dead
we
bury the being
with memories opportunities
we
bury the generous organs in Styrofoam cups
we
throw plastic petals at peace
we
toss bouquets of crepe paper into a rushing breeze
we
tug at the gown tail of
property hope togetherness serenity
we
sprinkle our stories dreams revelations
we
move on
dumb vacant thoughtless and defiantly dying

callipygian

Hormane is here
sucking a pleasant plum
always here
waiting for a fortuitous encounter with
callipygous moments

There are theories
of how juices flow to soft places
fly between volcanic embraces
it is the reason why buxom numbers spill
out of the economist’s cup
what we wouldn’t do for more, more, more
for a larger one, a grander heftier tool

We’ll make
a fool out of daylight
for sure

And in the spare time
Hormane unscrambles the letters
Spells out Z A F T I G
something big, something full
of possibilities full
of outpouring

Hormane is always there
sucking a plump pleasing sweetened
life
so take a bow, and
another and another, another and
Ahhhh
all the cracks in the theories reveal themselves spontaneously
and the crackpots grunt
for joy and the crackpots overwhelm Hormane with
a gush of empty doctrine
tenacious tenets that
fill the space with more, more, more