an imaginary angle

as one might taste
in radio waves some
sickly smack of singeing e-
lastic—
 
Lexington seemed some
sixties-something, would-
be-retired-if-he-hadn’t-
bought-a-third-house sort of 
teacup doctor pressed in a pin-
striped oxford shirt buffed
bluer than baby’s eyes, with
labyrinth skin singed brighter 
than bricks that starlings picked
to a gum infection; holstering,
plain as a deed seems simply signed 
in a tea-steeped day, some seamless 
spring from the leather-
clad helm of a warmly
bleating beemer, blithely white as his
virulent hairline clambers up over
impacted eden, eve un-
earthed from the feathering 
scree, some humbly diaper-polished
tangram tramp-stamp strangely em-
bossing a plate from KCI, left reading as
(all of the vowels chewn down into va-
 ginal traces of talcum and toothpaste)
some wan waltz transposed to moan,
                               HRD WRK—his
eyes jerked over the whelk-
shell nerve of pedestrians, daring him
crush what scarcely a night had wrought,
and the beemer clopped up over the curb to
choke out the creosote moment once hoping to
make him feel                                affronted just
                             for something,
some nipped knot in the hiccuping
breastbone how many years of steering
his weight around sneering pedestrians wrought 
into some rough, buff-colored mithril none
                              of us 
                    seem to be
able to
furnish a
cherry pit
name for. Say, they say
 
Hank Clay’s Kentucky’s favorite son,
though I know another one, beaming
 
as white as the starlight laps
and laps around what’s
that sign say now about
Cheapside—

***this is fiction. should anyone actually license the aforementioned plates, this was never about you, nor any account of accident or incident***