never
could this turtle
the size of a dinner plate
dancing on the manic beach before me
ever be more real
than those damn Grateful Dead
terrapins
that graced the bumper
of your car in
the summer of 1980

which is where I’m sure this one
escaped from
since something I saw on TV earlier
made me remember you

when I shut my useless lids
you’re just as real as he is
you and your strawberry sex
you and your punch to the crotch
fake devotions
your prison wife tongue a mailbox
shipping junk

which is where I’m sure
the TV
got the idea to remind me

of you and your strawberry punches
all over your face
your hair trailing brutal devotees
who followed you around and around
the woolen mill floor

you
easy as a passcode to steal
easy as summer dumb drunk
God! you were easy as a turtle to pick up
with a shell as smooth as my Riunite goggles
green and snappy cold to the touch

which is why I’m sure I remember you
unhurt by the oily men who weren’t me
even if you lied about them to me
you strawberry boxer
kid assassin with the ass of a star

tonight this turtle
keeps stepping out in my not-quite dreams
makes me think of you
in July
in my fever

which is where you moved to
right after I finally quit that stinking job
strictly because I knew you were always
going to be
dead to me

not sleeping is like the fun rock climb
of a night that holds up
the altitude in you and takes everything it’s got
to use for the purchase of something hot —
grease jewels, redacted assays, stents and shunts
drawing down the sifted juice you swim in

not stopping the thought parade
is like forgiving
the skatepark revelator folk magician
who steps on the bullsnake
and cuts its head off while the rest
thrashes home toward the grave of its past
sliding on blood over the pavement —
air below its throes and it won’t die

mad props and hosannas to the elevator eyes on high speed
mad ghost choir shadormas to the spanking of reason
mad ballistic chants to chi coursing on organs in open pipe mode

not sleeping is how it begins
the holy writ of unholy charge in the vein

and its will be done
until its will is done
its will be done
until its will be
done

if a voice offers to boil you
take it for a walk
like a beloved dog
until it’s panting
begging for cool water

if a voice begs to hang you
calm it with long strokes
and a fistful of doctrine
until it curls up and makes nice
with its spiky fur bent
against your failing ankles

if a voice threatens to bean you
with a burn softball
toss it back and get steel-eyed
on its face until
it cowers behind the plate
shitting soft gold paste
you can use to paint the bleachers
where the weird spectators sit
watching you just so they can complain
all the way home
if you win

good night ladies
good night ladies
good night ladies
we’re going to leave you now

we’re visiting our graveyards
we’re opening our Sterno
we’re bleeding on our tables
we’re going to leave you now

merrily we roll along
roll along, rolling wrong
merrily we roll along
along the restive bay

street song ladies
bereft ladies
murder brides and babies
we’re going to leave you now

we leaped at damage
we drank some darkness
we ate your children
we’re going to leave you now

and verily we roll along
rob a throng, drop a bomb
merrily we roll ourselves
into the red dead bay