Surrealism via late for work
The fedora hangs on the face
at the angle of the sun rising
on the boulevard where hookers
evacuate their office space
for the homeless veterans
working their shining Dali grins
and crayola cardboard signs -

we sing in German,
though we don't understand the words -

the bones of the sorority girls are
sunning themselves on the rooftops
while the skin they wear yawns in
classrooms where the neo-Fraulein
strikes a pose typical of a catholic
deity -

a saint blasphemes,
yet the sun comes
higher -

the business man cartwheels
mind over matter
mid morning, hypnotizes
the lion cubs as they wander
the desert highways before the
current of cars plows through.

We sing,
but no one is out to notice.

The grasshoppers frighten the
children, and your sunglasses make
the serfs think we are movie stars,
the make believe is mad lib,
the traffic lights are neon
and the music gets louder with
each passing curve -

a man smokes a cigarette
as the sun rises above him,

she thinks she might fall
in love with him; she thinks
the wind sometimes sounds
like Tchaikovsky; she thinks
that the smoke from his
cigarette is the combined
ghost of every woman he
has ever slept with -

she thinks the ghost
is warning her in the corner
of her bedroom each night;

she views her mistakes
in cubism;

modernism is a condition
catching,

she worries she will
fall in love -

the music stops -
sun risen in its bridal
ballad of veils and
nails down your back

we do not speak
the language, we just
mimic.