28 cop cars, and i am amazed

it did not rain in new york city.
sometimes i want to stuff you into
my sleeves, ball you up and store you
with mothballs, craters in your
eyes. sometimes i want to
shove you down my throat. sometimes
i think i have. there's a lump there.
i have landmarks, now, big and glass
strangled in scar-tissue
(but healing fast)
and i have fingernails, too.
that's important as well.
the world is this strange, phallic
disgrace but i can't help
it if i am not disturbed.
inkwells gather in my eyes
it's like my irises want to well up
well out, turn large and scared and victorious
all at once
because i know
i know.
for once the trees are made of solid wood
no more of these ceramic visions
terracotta dreams
i am seeing in nine dimensions
and i don't even know it.
today the sun peeked out,
if only for a minute.
today, you slunk inside your
ten-billion-watt home and watched
your childhood slip into
"kleenex! windex! condoms!"
oh, what a world.
today, it did not rain.