A Howl from the Supermarket of Dreams
The desert is the ghetto
where someone
stole a plastic doll heart
to make a silicone mask
for those who
like radioactive rain
fall on neatly watered gardens
the true taste is always bitter
like the last cigarette
before bed
lonely as the Yeti
lost as a snowball
in hot oil
I try
to forget the touch
of youth’s sparkling fingers
love is a chance partner
luxurious
freefall
through the dome of a silk parachute