County of Kings

From every fire hydrant,
Oil is spilling
Off the sidewalks
And coursing

Into Brooklyn’s inner-state.
The color is crude,
And every citizen is naked
Holding their rude heads

In the Easter egg baskets
Of their bloody laps.
Their burnt red bodies slip
And slide into the Enfer

Of industry’s brutal black.
The sands of Saudi Arabia
And Iraq shouldn’t be here
But are blowing everywhere.

I climb the greatest
Of Hell’s dunes
And reach beyond
The greatest Man-

hattan skyscraper–without oxygen
And while beating
The tiny blue bird
In my chest.

I ride a yellow camel,
Which is a brute taxi cab
Running out of gas.
Oh God!, I keep screaming

Oh God!, licking a hulk-red cloud,
Which peels off the sky.
The clouds tastes of soot
And yellowed Victorian’s wallpaper.

The barb from a poisonous wall-
flower pierces my tongue
And so suffices
For cheap jewelry,

Making my tongue fall dumb
Out of my mouth.
Like a hellhound
Bleeding and stinking,

Sniffing for a bone
I’ve already eaten.