I absorb trust like a love rhombus
I feel I must elucidate
I ate the chump with guile
Quadrilateral I was
Now I warp like a smile

Exits to freeways
twisted like knots on
the fingers
jewels cleaving
skin between
breasts.

Your Cadillac breathes
four hundred horses
over blue lines
you are going
to Reseda
to make love
to a model
from Ohio
whose real name
you don't
know

you spin
like the cadillac was
overturning down a
cliff on television
and the radio is on
and the radioman is speaking
and the radioman says
women were a curse
so men built Paramount
studios
and men built Columbia
studios
and men built
Los Angeles

Gone savage
for teenagers with
automatic weapons and
boundless love
gone savage for
teenagers who are
aesthetically pleasing
in other words
fly
Los Angeles beckons
the teenagers
to come to her
on buses;
Los Angeles loves
love

it is 5 am
and you are listening
to Los Angeles

I am going to
Los Angeles
to build a screenplay about
lovers who
murder each
other
I am going to
Los Angeles
to see my own
name on a
screen, five feet
long and luminous
as the radioman says
it is 5 am
and the sun has charred
the other side of
the world and come
back to us
and painted the smoke
over our heads
an imperial violet
it is 5 am
and you are listening
to Los Angeles.

You are listening.
You are listening.
You are listening.
You are listening.

Moon Sammy walks. Across the floor. Below the floor. There is a wall.
Behind the wall. There is a chair. Moon Sammy knows. The chair is there.

But that's OK, that's OK, you can do that--if you're wound up, full of tension,
incoherent. Your mouth is buttered with lies; you ask why, but you could
call it enigmatic; all your thoughts about the chair are full of static.
Automatically your mind goes down the stairwell to the chair; your body
says Moon Sammy, can you come back?

Strum it.

Moon Sammy washes. In the sink. Below the sink. There is a drain. The drain
goes straight. Into the sea. The sink itself. Is porcelain.

Obsess yourself with causality. The information you hear is a loophole,
technicality. Behind every object is a mathematic; an obscure substance
infused with a kinetic force, energy, an obscure conscience shoots a gun at
the feet the world dances.

Babylon, mystery, mother of harlots, and all these abominations of the
earth, that sits on many waters, drunk with the blood of the martyrs of
jesus.

And I wondered with great admiration.

My eye like a noisegate the number 8 frustrate and I roll to the floor fruit
to the fruit to the core of a spheroid embedded in my skull the round the
zero the symbol of null and void and well I toyed with the concept of
vitamin B-12 the synapse the synapse it feeds itself on a nutrient
contained in sunlight the blink the lid the fight to snap open

Moving up to the double M 2000 I eat up a decade like a flan your turn of
the century turn it up turn it up clock seconds to the hour go and cash the
millenium Um Um and it hums like a migraine to the brain in the time yet
remaining but uh ah melancholy nonsense and I crack nouns brotherfuck
the verb tense

Recombination, then Viacom, Safeway