Bourge-wise Cat

My Urban Knot Breaks Your Pattern
Night makes an illegal left in this
petroleum-based dream. Whose idea
was it to opt for an open-air market?
When did you lose the remote control?
Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire.
Night flaming Lucifer, my opposite times 7,
your heartless sciences and useless sacrificial
parades leave me nothing but an emptyshelled
Brazil nut. Give me back my credit
cards or I’ll sue you this time—I swear it.
Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire.
My animal heart hums in its sky cup. The stars
siphon glitter into the cup. Planets fill the cup with
planets. Tambourine shaker on this karmic goaround,
I’ll stalk you crazy until I get my juicer back.
Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire.
My floating junkie in outer space is now
my former floating junkie from a constellation
I’ll tear into seven irregular pieces. Strange
chamber of memories now, I’ll never dust
that chamber of horrors you call an apartment
again. Ever.
Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire.
Now my days are drunk in the kernel of the twelve
dreams. My night’s a free-falling wand, a basin of
velvet, a kleptomaniac’s dream flavor. The
scar over my left eye is healing nicely, but
you still owe me for the emergency room.
Boston’s the last time you’ll set my hair on fire.
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