my rebellion thrives

when I’m smoking
beneath a no smoking sign
with the cautious, gawky, 
leathery grin of a 
monkshood petal pulled
tatty and ratty from
desk-wrought chewing gum
teeth of a reeling behemoth
at long last raking 
in naked esteem this
quivering lime of a
drunken chalk line shaping 
of thankless breath
and the restive precipice
something akin to the
body of Christ, judged
right on The Price is
Right, left tickling
stubs from a straggly 
highwayside some god knit 
out of its gutka and straggly 
dragonflies dredged up
from a pitiless cigarette, licking
immortal forests of ash into 
snickering embers; thrashing at
dragons revealed among
vestal smoke and the
blood clot coyly garroting
the timpani breastbone
into a beckoning snare,
all the mild and idling
cares of a eusocial sheep
in the sheepweed, paradiddle
cud of the hell-borne
Wally World’s throttling
sentries, summoning
something, a something
I can’t quite finger or
frame or forge or fell,
and nary a sign I might
sticky-tack over the
gates of tellurian hell
to dispel it—
I keep trying to write 
the boys i mean are not 
refined and failing—
waxing cracks in a buckling Tuscan golem,
feeding it matagot dander and matchsticks,
quietly spiraling coppery hair into
               garish antennae, dissembling
  quivering ostrich necks the dirt
  cathects, inflects, and cuds and
  floods with the flickering fear of a
scrambled addendum, a
sibilant spline of static distended
to seem some frantic fish flung
half from a tuna can, half
from a whelk-worked ear, and
all of which whistling Cats 
at a public pool
through a Dixie cup kazoo
with a runny nose now—cute.