Untitled

Red man made of light blinking to a sentimental drum,
I took a class at the BMCC called Funk Dancing for Self-Defense.

Little Red Riding Hood became West Side Story:
O Grammar! Wood bag icer gut! A nervous sausage bag ice!
Okra mar! U vaca y ser goth! Lamer voz haz a che vagaís!

Okra sea! You cow and become goth
(as if against your wish to be hip).
Rinpoche, beaming voice, you wander!
Laser beam voice across the concrete in little green lights. 

I took the line for a walk but it
broke the leash and I can only
track it by picking up shit
in a plastic bag like a glove that turns inside out.

Someone distant howling.

I moon walk in the intersection.

Although I seem to be, I'm not alone.