Necklaces and opera glasses hang from the old bag's neck,
she thinks she's Mona Lisa, she's someone else she would not expect,
to be out eternally mortal, corroding from the first,
harassing the valium merchants avenue to avenue,
observing the ice cream faithful as she would an empty room
caught in a sudden passion no consciousness would consume
as her pictures of Frida Kahlo dissolve in the kissing air
of frieze patterns that encapsulate
the salvation of a thief,
her labrador in ecstasy, her poodle in relief
O if only she was a portrait hanging on a museum wall
this love of drunkenness and god would not make her beggars crawl.
The old bag crawls on all fours like a ruptured linguistic system,
thru lethal vows and god-fearing consonants, she's a sweetheart
prone to falling in love with the shadow of an ambulance driver,
a one-eyed polar bear tap dancing on a Polaroid of Satan dressed as Gandhi.
The old bag diets on umbilical trombones,
greasy quacks, vagabond dolls, scoops of delicious logic,
a sound like eight hairy legs scuttling across the floor. Always her beautiful eyebrows
are raised at savage equations of jelly and rags, I could almost
fall in love with her
as I envision hysterical Houdini diving boards, the
lush blue coins of extraterrestrial ilk, the sonnets of the sun and the moon
fragmenting over heads of happy couples as they go swimming in manure.
The old bag as Tinkerbell plays
with the souls of zuni sacred clowns,
strippers dressed in crimson kimonos
at the stroke of an analogue midnight gripped
by the ever so faintest
scintilla of a Darwinian steer. The old bag catches
the Eye of Agamotto or some cyclops racked with agony screaming
his words as if from the mouth of a cave. Lord take pity
on the mordant jokes of kings,
the scientific tapestries of algorithmic masks.
The ticket to the soft machine has not yet exploded.