Hydrogen

Morning zeppelins
crashes into bricks, collapsing
a million kinds of light through the window
ending blind bed mornings.
High foul, shadow drifting over the city of the dead.
Nine zombies shambol in the wind.
Some are married & have kids, who run for the ball
as the seagull holds its position, farting hydrogen.
"The last time they were here, they murdered 'em"
Six-nothing, second inning
ERA deterrence factor pull the pitcher
& give me a margarita
they knock fists
the pitcher is overwhelmed by fire ants
A dozen pigeons wander into the game
they are the opposing team
& high above them on the pit slope
and oiled Indian stamps & chants
it's a nightmare I can't wake up sleeping inning.

At the Necropolis we are
greased up against the sun. We
are going in, crawling. Out
the house before noon, out
the tomb before midnight.
The Necropolis is boring. The
rocks look like rocks. They look
like boxes. Between the river and
the view is a highway. Out the asshole
of life, into the to-hu-vo-hu
a monument eroded into a scream
nice embouchure
the phe-no-me-non
rushes over sunny and birdy.

In traffic the assassin wears a blue suede jacket.
He rides his bicycle without turning.
His name is Hermes.
He's known not for his speed or wit
    but for the steady consequence of his feet, spinning.
His tires balloon.
His fires flare.
He rises.
He has a silly expression, a red nose, a bout of gout.
He surveys his city with eyes of icosahedrons.
He eats cherries.
He offers no explanations.
He pulls off his jeans and flashes pink fish-net stockings.