Exxon Sign

Gloating solo, moody, in hotel quarters/fish eyed, abandoned,/spittle on cash/ghost from a kooky body,/color of milk/tension rises in the street/layout in arabesque./This time it’ll all go in reverence,/escape a surreal consort,/rebel against trust./The whole thing goes much like this,/ like a barber mirror’s endless progress/ in eyes like saucers./Till later,/when you step down/words cascade without direction./The florid gas sign whirls,/slowly,in a plastic flower patch,/hiding a breed of insect,/whirls faster, blinks,/makes me want to ride a jet stream/ from the moon’s pull on the tide.

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