In a sand casino we devour the sun

standing like two dimensional cut outs

spinning roulette under a three hundred degree rainbow.
I leave friends orbiting the night.

Neon lights with cues

push me into traffic's deafening rune

where subways converge.

Now, I slam against a naked human pyramid

balancing so high

I think it might spill

as simply as my last martini.
I meet a corpse in a dinner suit

he feels for my pulse under folds

of this green shantung frock.

It's a place you can't film.

His hands tap the fandango.

Spindly branches tangling my high fidelity.
The corpse in his crumpled dinner suit

corners Los Galapagos Boulevard

calmly stepping to a conga line's limbo.

I'm bent in tai chi's harmonising languor:

lost in dead spaces

between my minds fix

and a nicotine rush.

Some faces flick past

pages from a book I've never read.
He thinks I am like him:

he checks my vital signs:

says we're facing the wrong way.

His double breast shields me

from a city's metallic rage.
Later, at the sand casino

I order grilled parrot

from a waiter who juggles watermelons.

The corpse isn't hungry

he's shredding clouds

pleating napkins into geodesic domes.