Mexican Reggae Station


The radio at the nurseÕs station plays while the
demon-infested Australian Lynx, Sixa
contemplates his next move.


Fellow dead weight,
this arousal will demand
some men and women.
I know a boot just laced.

"As if in there,
Dearest Leatherpillow," purrs Sixa,
life ends during every sentence,
the hair is a scarecrow looking for some skin,
the thing repeating him
with a quilted, northern exposure.

There are seven saddles
in the internal marketing
scheme of his mouth.
You see,
if you have my attention
what happens behind your teeth
is a radium silhouette to me.
There is this tobacco-brown bear
negotiating

these hallways on all fours,
this circumscribing mass, my familiar.
Orderlies in the doorway hold back the closers.
The phone booth to his right
is unoccupied.
Four-thog, strange name, you'll do.
A relative of the last bear
in the Sarajevo Zoo?

This demon furthest from the axis of hell
inside of a cat,
safe from the bear while asleep on the bear
because his profile says he hates the taste of cat.
The kind, warm scratch of welcome.


Dry-Bred