Inside your head’s a Dalí painting
birds fly backwards fire puts out water
you remember what you didn’t hear you
feel your way in a funhouse you’re about
as scrambled as a three egg omelet
on acid with ketchup.
Talking to you is like tuning
a cheap radio you’re all buzz and break up
you’re broadcast from Mars it’s
bad reception. Like your sister and brother
before you three blind mice see how they run
on and on and right over the cliff.
And all of a sudden right out of
the Superfund site that’s your head like a
vision of Mary levitating over a bayou
just out of reach of the snapping gators and
swamp gas and you remember
Greenwich Village in ‘59 as clear
as the light from God’s forehead
on resurrection day and my heart gasps
a little leaving behind a small and purple
bruise but it’s there for sure.