by Mark Fleury
Fluidity is the tears
Under what high jazz cymbals
Float on, welling up
In eye bags and
Bouncing off of a bottom lip
As rain around a hung-low head
In a bus shelter’s edge.
In the gleam of a tooth-
Picked, toaster tinted
Dealer’s grin,
Those stoned in rowboats
Stay under bridges of cocaine heart
Attack victims as he,
With angular, Manson-freaked
Facial features,
And with infinite rainbows
And choired suns behind
His twelve foot tall body,
Approaches the hapless
Three foot tall addict with gums
Knotted around teeth with roots
In the diamond mind of the highest
Windows of a skyscraper. One carved pane reads:
God’s One Form.
The vibration of the dealer’s
Wink is gigantic because
Only the innocent Angelic Light,
The carver, isn’t sound.

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