Streaks

Incandecant embers drawn in the black sands of time

moving with me, the faster I roar the more breath is blown into the rackle of exubrant light:

warmth,

the faster I roar, the larger my lungs can bellow

the faster I roar, the more sweat gleams on the forehead of father time

as he handles the bellows, burning the sand, blowing glass, sparking the night ablaze.

Death is in the passenger seat, his dog with his tongue dragging in the sublunarly buffer.

The polyester stitching that shines under my enthusiastic, bold photon blasters

safe guard night in a past tense residue: they have places to be too.

Ginsberg is getting oxygen, with every pulse of the yellow floating on black

his blood shoots like yellow cab from city block to block.

He is revived but I keep on with compressions, he doesn't speak other than his shiny,

bald head warning of the traps of night but I see it also nods, acknowledging the wonderland.

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