& this is not a poem. This is my mother on stilts: lip-pierced
preachers stripped down with the bunnies. This is imagined self
portraits with circuit board stomachs. This is a pilot, an altar boy,
a mountain goat walking into a motorcycle bar. This is the submarine
sandwich I ate for lunch: an elegy for Frank Stallone.
This is not Freddy Gwynne's forehead; a rebellious people. This is not
our favorite monster; goofy lightning bolts, a string of beads on
fire. This is not a deregulated heart, little emperor hat. This is
not graffiti: biff was here, 1979.
This is not a response to something that doesn't exist.
This is a cowboy taking off his hat for the sunset cruise.