The faces passing by
blur into surrealist
manifestos,
written in their
demure splotches
I am searching constantly,
all these blank slates.


Passing in 35s
and 40s, I am lost
in panic searching.
Their souls
are splattered,
I am reenacting
Pollack on my
lawn.


Standing with a garden
hose upon the green blades
I will name one by one
as they whir in pastels
dimmed by a mist.
And forever these faces
move in shiftless forms,
features melted
as my hands burn
like plastic in the sun.
Wax crayons pool
in the back compartments
of the shining bullets.


Such a rapidity
we'll get sick standing by,
throwing up in the grass
like drunken wards,
as the nameless one pass,
passing forever
into oblivion
as defined by
colors. Swirling
into the kitchen drain.


I stand making
technicolor lines
in the yard.