In The Sunshine of Chaos and Sex

An M Roadster
Wine stained wings
Yours truly, Yorick Nixon,
Forgetting things
At the wheel.

Salamander fire, girls
Inside and out
Are a kind of homage
To the hard-lined
Engineering of black
Germanic plush.

The enormous scene comes
And goes, plays dead,
Ancestral Marin-dream.

A blushing cloud, plush lover,
Like Old Man River's sister,
Comes and goes too.

And she wants to snuggle closely at my side.
Sunlit, silent, naked maenad
And fellow traitor
Whispering hot-eyed verties.
One heart convulsing for two.
Panties missing in the woods,
Objectifying the enemies of silence.
My chest an old blanket
In a poorhouse bunkbed.
You find yourself
With a small heroic army of
Silent bronze bears, laid out & buried
In shallow graves
Beneath black sand beaches
In Northern California
With all that unponderably
Real water.
Mistaking your heart
For an overpriced vintage shirt.
Portia and Rosalind
Tiptoeing over your bones.



The Dream Posse

I got into it
The other night
An actual knock-down,
Physical fight
With respected dream doctor
Sigmund Freud.
My evenings, I'm afraid,
Are hereafter destroyed.

Permanent damage to my fragile enough beaming way
Came of the bastard's offhanded pointing out
The window through which emitted
Tropic shafts of an erotically deranged wind,
No further than the vermin hatching airshaft
Separting the dive across the way from mine.
The one with mullions attached by a madman
And hell's dogs biting the blinds.



Why Are You Crying?

I was wondering about you.

I stood like the sick Bacchus
Shivering beneath a frozen dogwood.

I watched the
Crude humor
Of low bred winds,
Into their cigars
And cheap ways,
Spread out over
The tense, iced river,
As it began to verge violent
Into the space of
Silence seeking idlers.
Such as myself.

God said, "You're on your own, Nixon.
Uncertainty is free will's prerequisite."
"I know that, god," I said,
Right back at Ms. Uncertainty.
"That's why
I only read the red parts
In the New Testament."
She liked that.
But notice I avoided mentioning
Their purpose.
Getting me up and over
The metaphysical fog
That otherwise spoils
These painterly riverside
Reveries of mine.

Your tits, exempli gratia,
Are they then to be
Always away for me?
Lips: What do you do now?
I find Love freakishly physical.
O Uncertain sky.
O moonbeam voices.
O trembling bones.

I wonder about you.
For instance,
I couldn't lose the idea
You might be crying somewhere.
About something.



Epic Poem

I saw John Milton falling
Through the acryllic void.
An angular man
With satiny loins.

I couldn't decipher
The meaning of
The perpetually gesturing
Styrofoam boater.

'She gets on my teat!' is all
That Milton's blind voice halloaed
Across the hollow swirl,
'Right on my bloody teat!'