morning

[only rob]

Sometimes


when the lake catches fire,
the surrealist adventure persists,
before the stimulant passes lips
and that Eastern face makes it real,
the wildebeest stampedes
between a faceless lovers thighs
and fetal shapes affix limbs
to the horror of another morning.

the moon falls, wing-broken

The day stinks of reality
like blue cheese or violent priests,
nibbling at innocent crackers
in some inner Mississippi
that threatens us with cubicles
filled with images of those for
whom we are never good enough
affixed to make-believe walls.

Sometimes, I scream.