Tonight I’m running
the all bets are off algorithm,
a cramped curiosity cabinet
waiting for the letters to fall
in a pattern, arc, ray
while I scratch a turntable
bookmarked to the beats
of times gone by.
I know a little past tense, here & there.  

Burrough ape-skulls
echo a Holmes’ violin
to the back-rhythm frenzy
of cyber edge nightlife pulsing
through a dirty Chiba City.
A literature lightshow
with everything but Romance.  

Feral Angel, tears dry—
scars don’t.
Honey, it can’t be me.
I don’t have any heart left.