Bungalow no 3

glued my eyes up to the mighty sky dynamo
containing
outdoor beauty and cans of leisure
being one
like fish on rice and beans and orchids
ornaments from the old man
of the mountain's
puff-machine...
there & here we slither
now & zen
not meant for life and/or death
rather immortal frequencies
of los voladores
repeatance and repeatance and repeatence
in deep chairs
sweet-talk peaches
church choirs
shit-talk hobos
wasted gurus
of unmade religions
jumping up at every train's whistle
looking for diamonds
in their noses
and rubies
in other cavities
hoping the train's thrust will end all things
now...
wipe out giant piles
of cowboy boots
and violet lipsticks
like cells
of a bigger apparatus
there is the whole globe here
hole globe here...
& the room
divided precisely into four mighty pieces
reminds them of the cross
which is all things simple
& universe translucent...

over Bungalow no 3
the sky is never empty:
stars are all spaces
times