God, like his son, was a carpenter and a drunken one: too fond of water to wine, working loaded when he forged this Earth making mangy lions, horrible deep sea fish, marsupial ducks,
artists battle wasps for their espresso outside in the thorn garden under bright bill-boards gray men with missing legs beg, unknown yankee dregs New Yorkers await
as black stars align she ascends from the cold war ether on riot wings into a decadent age prepared for her like a five-star table complete with swan napkin and free speech salad fork
when the perilous moment comes (if not the next then the next or the next) I'm going to freeze up again like a coward or a lamb green schoolboy after all my adventures,
smiling through the sweat savoring the dregs of summer, feet as light as the shining blue zenith that surrounds me, gliding over oil-mottled rainbows, walking on eggs and coffee,