Sugarcane Poem 2

Posing hip
cocked until I am sore
well into downtown's night
electricity pouring from my auroral hatch
rotting like spoiled milk
the concrete carpet outside
the thrown sharp shards of summer grass
june buggos dancing clumsy jumbo jets
their bright light high

me dancing on sparks of white running lines
running
back of swollen skull caverns
the running lines
my electric back bone
a childhood of digging ditches follows
me into my grown body riding like boxcar banditos
   below my fingernails

she double-crosses in triplet
so that she doesn't double-cross at all
underwire lines red like the diagrams on an
electrician's blueprint
underwear around her thighs
then
her knees
then
the black wet mud
bending low in the sugarcane to prospect her

this mauveine skyscape
splashed in thick thunderous slabs
of oil paint
of crawling roman columns
marching pillars in ionic alabaster
here comes the
bedouin rain.

TA