“Colors” starring Patti, Grandma, & me at twenty-five Wherever you go there you are like Patti Smith’s shoulders placed in this cold century with a virility that lacks self-esteem Paco says hang on & flourish like Grandma Moses I use her little legs & go to town making scenes in which a dirty lover breaks
		down blushing assailants
	in bra-training films My college heartsprain
		harried & in sympathy with the damning empire
	Guess I’ll grow up to be as pink & mean as God with spareribs, a Dutch vocabulary lesson
		which makes my uncle see red
	eyes closed to peoples moorings, spoiling it & a kid’s liver gets smacked in on a jungle gym vibrates beneath a bright sexual state of the union address
		Poor Paco. Poor Jim Dine.
	Audit trails are here again & I have never smashed a black widow
		myself Forcefed horsemeat out in the sticks or
	stark mad on the sidelines, some brownies skip forward as in a fugue singing Horses through with orangina, head gear, the “hispanic child rack” transmuted into nerves & glory & this the ruinous work of nostalgia
		in my august opinion in a turgid march
	or my dream of becoming alive on a turnpike like a two-ton hussy the way I don’t fall in at weigh stations
		lighting the endless white race
	with elbows, lymph systems my valentine & Grandma Moses sweating in an infinitely soft asylum