Plastic rosary for a Pope, an Afghan woman with blue bruises under her exotic eyes, people perform false miracles, some naked howling graverobber riding around in a grocery buggy, a parking lot and temple of terror, barking prophecy at all the rats that scurry back into their holes, a cat bristles on her beam.
Trash cans turned over, the blood jet from the throat slashers, an audience with wide, white eyes and the pure blissful rapture of explosions, car wrecks on the highway, head in a steering wheel, the arch of a golden cupola, tears of unspeakable melancholy and the bludgeoned, dirty clouds stalking my cush cottontail rabbit pasture, an old dismembered man in a dung heap, the rotting decay of a city full of artificial snakes, sickening gumbo vomit bubbles in a nightclub toilet, the sickness bathed and baptized in my spit, policeman at the door beating up a drunk, a raven haired harlot with a slick milky tongue, I hate when people ask me how I am doing knowing that I am sick.