There are burning maps of a tasteless forest
With paths lost in the bellies of spiders
We step on pictures of humans made by birds
And rotten fingers pointing at the clear sky
When kettle and shampoo trees grow quiet
Children beget stolen words
Vomit stolen magic
Cities begin at the northern end of the air.
Invisible mountains dance high above in the snow.
Pianos burn in the hotels with unpronounceable names.
Retired dentists call up local spirits from restaurant mirrors.
They do appear sometimes. Modest and shy,
they meditatively count wine glasses used by
thousands of maudlin imbeciles. Some of them are
a mess, the others sound like garish rock songs
or look like someone who has just eaten a plate
of sacred mushrooms at a fast food joint by mistake.
Rare insects follow them, ready to lose a sense of purpose.