Elvis & William Blake reborn as the American west.
We take cab rides with cups of coffee.
We shift molecules, spin ecstasy,
recycle & snicker
as a pair of paramours
petrified, only left to be proven right.

In an ancient city on the cusp of iconic exotic decay,
we grow into a rotary relic rigged,
something like a telephone of London in red proportions.
Blake naked on his front lawn. Elvis singing the future.

The rest of us live apart because
it doesn't deprive them of separation
when they are not ourselves.
We may be an entwined particle,
even on opposite ends of the
the other line, but to be identically altered or affected
is nothing but a nightmare of logical stabbings.
My other arranges a series of night flights,
which are spherical,
shaped like the planet and suicidal as a wolf.
Verse & song infuse the dead light of stars.

Eve's listening through the backdoor and hears,
Will you marry me?
Clefts and pitfalls from
the fear of our own imaginations
resemble the snakes
like ladders in Medusa's halo.

Creating in a decrepit house on the edge of town
is the new height of convention.
Gyrate hips; illuminate manuscripts.
We are off the grid and replicating like bunnies
the inner circle in the seat of our other lives,
sword and body piercing, song & light dancing.
Beyond the top rung is the glowing nothing.