Leeches undress your elbows
as I hold your knees up to
refinery geysers, ejecting their
dictionaries on great highway yachts.

And power lines cut through night-pupils,
open to the hooves of a hamburger, chewing its cud.
That antler rack bounds in front of us.
Wouldn’t it look good on the mantle
above the monoxide fireplace?

We climb up two-by-fours and perch
on the monolith of home so we can
chisel the president’s face in the side of
the great breasts of our mother.

We paint the sunset with our brush of
home cleaning products, and leave
empty Pepsi bottles for Little Big Horn
on US-HWY 87.

We cut cloth with sewage sea glass
and pay fifteen pennies to the children—
on sale fifty percent off.

The sun greases the clouds as crude
seals blowholes shut, and great lungs
rot, and heave on the beaches.

Gulls glued, black, slick and sunken.
Strangled by the Great American tradition
of guns,
and plastic patriotism.