On the other side of the false world
Ink pools hollow roots.
You find the tree lying at the bottom
of a smoke stack, or cigarette.
Reaching for the blue, you dig sky, soil,
root, and rib; Rainbows oil your hand,
certificates and epitaphs that glow
like the sky above our city,
a treeless fossil gridding the desert with bionary.
I ask: what is America?
“Fear and Loathing!”
Perfect and unpublished, you fold the desert in my ribs
and say “America is a boy at the bottom of a smoke stack
reaching for the blue.”
I roll the tree into a cigarette. Watching the interstate,
we smoke the false world as the city grows dark,
a hollow car passing in the night.