Tequila & chicken
causing lunar distress.
Nothing promising
on the tb—one symphony
of skeletons, two
black dots, one mountebank
of incurable disease,
one rainbow grounded into
dog-ticks. Oh, it is dark here.
I can hear squeaks, probably
elephants. I try to call
the cops but they’re
at the ballgame, a benefit
for those who can see.
I turn the lights on in my skull—
what a beautiful evening!
It is like a tombstone
full of vital information.
The highway eagles now 
living out this dream.