There are black dogs
in the yellow housewife
kitchens of Kansas
On the window sills
rest scores of celluloid bats
Outside the skies turn
from whiskey brown to empty
I believe the blender
has suicidal tendencies
I can hear the knives
twitching with speculation
There are long lines
of preachers and
gray faced practioners
of the law
standing in my driveway
My dog has taken to
speaking french
My friends distrust me
The dates on my calendar
keep changing
When I put a Dylan record
on my stereo Mario Lanza
comes out
and he’s holding harpoons
The ghost of Kerouac
keeps drinking my beer
My black hallways
become galleries
for my doubts
For once I wish they
would push the button
activating the anti-matter
Lao Tzu vomits a river
on my freshly cleaned carpet
I wrestle with winged rats
and the tentacled lips
of Jayne Mansfield
I’m afraid I’m losing
