The coiled regalia of a king fit for a dollar,
his high temple a twist in the body politic,
one nostril stuffed with a wad of cotton,
his neck pasta as his skin drips to the ground . . .
the rich suckle the rich, the poor wait,
but what bottle can fill with two liquids?
I think not when a dream detonates in a dream—
and with such misery I thank thanks for awakening.
Lonely like a lone spider in a rug, I sponge
semen from the sideboard and then lunch—
no, not stunned like a fish but still
packaged, the plush avenue frenzied and bloated,
a boy rousted by the king as he shelters his illness—
living, not in the sense of breath but need.