It is Still Happening in This Town

Long gone, hardly done,
and far from home
the naked man hitched
a ride from a bulldog
one too many times.

Magnificent blasts of bombs
suppressed reasoning and played
holy Sunday psalms in reverse.

I’ll trade in the shopping queen
for a half-eaten jellybean.
The ripened extension of gas
lines the veins of middle-class

Perfect secrets escaped
the crime in progress.
Latch-key runaways tongue
the dirt paths that cluster up
the country side.

Bulky, oxen-women’s fish fry
flopped and flipped fire
retardant mush morsels.

No one can seem to get a grip.

Brightly shaded cul-de-sac
is busy with bicycle traffic and
foot powder salesman.

Here’s a magnificent salamander for
the price of an amateur panhandler.

A microwave brain, locked under
full restraint, is set up in a toy store
waiting for holiday packaging and
nipples dripping with honey.

I’ve located a depressed monster
under the covers of a flower bed,
south of future radiation.