Holy Holy Holy

There’s a neon pink werewolf
Suspended above
The ceiling of
The sunken sunset sky
That plucks
All of the out of all time infants
From the brimming black of birth
And drops them gently down on earth
Much too soon/not nearly soon enough
With palettes for palms
They wipe off on the pants-thigh
Of out-of-place outfits…
Sobbing psalms in hot-houses
Tangled up in cables and vines
An American mensch
Wrestles the western present
In his half-ass-ded portrait
Under surveillance
His dark matter informed
By national ghost anthems
And moonlit leopard eyes
But what with everyone
As confused as everyone
The moment, chasing it’s own tail
By the time he tried to do his vocals
The loops had all drifted out of time
On the shitty 4-track beat
And he fell asleep
In the un-lush foreground
Nothing was lined up
The truth was marching in (place)