Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Saturday II

either these clouds are hauling ass
or that star is an airplane.
Colette is on her way down
So I stop talking to Diana and sit on my chair.
I stop eating the hipster
photographer girl's
honey barbeque fitos
and sit on my chair.
My chair
which is vibrating with the
power of the erupting volcano at least three blocks away
and the banging of the bells from St. Mark's Square
blood on the polinas and visitors from Tuscon
And many many people whose faces are a 35 millimeter lens.
I've decided that the star
is a star.
Sir, your motorcycle is abrasively loud.
I can count all the stars
one, two, three, there are 16 on the boulevard
and one glowing, glorified bird above the Palazzo.
I can tell which star is Mars because its red
one is particularly blue
but the one right above me at 45 degrees
is the brightest and most brilliant
and must be the Guru Jupiter.
Cosimo just came back from lunch and hung on my gate
he told me that I'm sexy and put a yellow package of peanut m&ms in my hand.
He knows I love peanut m&ms.
He told me he'd "fuck me right out of those uggs"
so I blew him a kiss and he tongued the air.
The Luxor's pillar of light shines directly into a small
cloud and
it looks like a spiral galaxy
and it is.


and now at
three thirty five in the morning
the pillar is constant.

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