Tap

I tap my forhead with two
fingers together. To clear out the
dustmites like a bee-bee
gun to an attic at the top of
the empire state.
Somewhere near Albany
or pookipc. I need
to tap harder to spell. Poukipsee.
Pukipsea. something like that.
now this house with the loft with the bugs
has Queen Anne windows and large french doors
a large statue of a Native American man
who's feet are covered with rabbit and snow.
Now this injun races the shadow of the sundial
the winter shadow to
post within the month and
clean out the cobbwebbs in his attic head
he can't spell Jenkins.
Can he

Facade Fire

The Movie Studio is burning
the sting and back to the future
have no place now
they are gone
nothing is contained
even the tapes are burning
the vaults are burning
this is my culture
and it will be nothing fuctional
the shell-case has melted
and we have nothing but ashes o fstrings and wire
that keep this wood frame in place

the great attraction to California
burns. los angeles. burns.

places that exist in everyones subconscious has been preserved the same for so many years, and they are now dezstoryed.

as I stare into the blue of my miller lite can, I am paralyzed. should I be at sympathy to this event. did God plan to take this all away, or am I the fool? am I the fool?