[Four. Oh, Nine...] reVISION* April 25, 2008

Walking backwards down I-10 to the [409]
Someone said it smells like money…
I say it reeks of corrosive atoms
clinging to my cashmere.

Divide the drugs equally,
subtract the middle class,
multiply high school sweethearts,
add crashing cars, killing kids-
this graffiti-ridden coffin is essential.

Notice not the catalytic cloud
in the atmosphere;
but behold
bullets raining into a sea
of asthmatic mannequins
drowning effortlessly
in their own handcrafted
wasteland observatory.