Shapes of times quaver and mutually reflect,
lightening the transcenium
with sparks of gay and minuscule emphasis.

The lone hitch-hiker stands out and plucks up a number
everyone knows, and collides in the atmosphere
about him. Unstaggered but still moving,
his generator throbs one, two more times.
He's a perfect replication of the primal source,
more potent and triangular than the campus
that betrayed him and on which he was based.

I try to indulge every passion, even that,
half-guilty and overwhelming, for a fat
hamburger, onions and a shake. Meanwhile
the restaurant gleams and dips out of view.
I ask you for it to go, please, and you look
like someone fearful of infection, as though
incapable of grasping the warm view
you join in this place.
After guessing the age of the usher who calls
intermission, you return to your neighbor
who's been chewing on the rear of your seat
and wade up the lights
where your breath is filming in front of you.
His muscles are hard as Platonic forms,
his Adam's apple ruddy in the twilight gleam
that tightens as the stars' names come on the screen.
Outside water is cheap and uninspiring
until some fascist pokes your head in it
and won't let go.

Gunfighters pass like little girls around the corner
to buy ice cream. The pharmacist wears magnificent lenses
and gets lost in the street, listening to their thunder
as they irresponsibly destroy his front windows.
Soon his cerebellum is unravelled in the children's hands
and my belt buckle comes undone again.

Your gaze has been electrified, you feel in touch
with the music that has blended you into
a semi-sour cream, tenderly melting
into the cushion and trickling among the wrappers
on the floor. You can't help noticing
you've become a thing of gerunds finally.
Your dreams embody you in the wrangling order,
while your horoscope looks on impassively.
I have taken over. But never ask,
whatever it is you were just about to ask.