last night was rife with displays of:

bulimia and masturbation
and poets typing under
wooded barrio streets.

i heard a vision: "two dollars a poem, two dollars a poem..."

and answered: "goggles, feet, and indeterminacy."

and the reply: "come back in ten minutes."

i spent twenty minutes walking from the clean well-lit world of the galleries into the Tom Waits rattle of tin cans on bars of the cell. i saw the Madness in the rouge, i felt the Fear in the baby carriage, i penned my own drunken verse with one eye closed and returned to the vision to barter:

he said: "your poem is done."

[insert poem by N___ V______]

and answered: "yours too."

glass bottom goggles

i saw

the feat of romance

in

the terminacy of marriage.