Drives the leash tight
with subtle upsides
and the swells of Midway

roll, skitter, and with no sail
I am litter & I kiss

Pollock while one drives

the leash tight
with subtle upswing
and the squeak of sneakers
(the pitter-pat laces)
THE WIND
an Aleutian hopscotch

That swirls just
like my private Pollock -
a pitch paste pitched
like waffle batter
across the cracked
parking grid full of
birds & bottle water

drove the leash tight
with subtle upbringings
and necks like logs
right next to logs

Of poured and
brine-soaked character.
Astride those logs
the street grows legs and
swish-swash, um,
your fishing pole
is drooling on kisses of hum
and mercury that seem

to be skating on a
pitch pulse pitching which,
when pitched,
gurgles itself to cream
all, all over,

over, we drive the leash tight and
it's over, again.

I wait by the roundhouse
for your freak to arrive.
I've hands in coat,
Dreaming tunnels lurching

east bubble and crest.
See me bubble like

slug juice beneath his shower

as a stranger's dark

wind laps lightly at his brow

with nautilus breath.
It screams as it cuts
across my cuts alot

and right, right on

cue slips as
SHHHHHHHHH
between my lips and I
bow, I tense carpals

now the punk progeny
prophesized is blitzing
through Providence.
In his threads I am and

was and am now born

upon a crisp, bottling
wind toward Pollock, I
hopscotch my Pollack.