The Cement Hammer

Back from in April, when I was obsessed with Bill Burroughs for the second time in my life.

Cement hammer busted on through the door. Wrestlers in their paddy wagons.

The land of heroes.
The land of masked idiots.

Will to power:
on with the signals.

Alerting(s)—off with them.
Channels are sewn together
the way buttons are pushed
to a new uniform. Starch heavy.

Drums are tapped beneath the hydro-
chloroformations.

We were walking amongst strings.

Perpendicular ropes courses.

Hearing Rodriquez after a 1970s shower.

It “was” like being dipped.

New vaticide culture.

The way vultures kiss.
more of a necking procedure,
leisurely wrapping beads, each groove
coughing into an interlock.

I saw the flashing gold dress
women in their first April weather
propped up and hanging loose.

What goes on off the slick fabrics?
Are their spider veins lurking
where once lips suctioned?

Is a gold reflection meaning
a shade has been displayed?

Flower dresses are even worse when
napalming. What I mean is:
Vietnamese watching
clouds of flame
seeing nothing but—pet.