Monday, June 26, 2006


There’s a phantom swooping on the plane
and bouillabaisse clogging the open drain.
I dream of traveling to Spain
and feasting on Bilbao’s holy pain.

Rushdie dangles from a cross:
A rearview mirror reflecting loss
like reruns of Danza’s Who’s the Boss?
I craft a noose from dental floss.

The salamander’s feet are slick
and yet they manage to grip and stick
to glass and metal, plaster, brick,
The thought alone just makes me sick.

All these thoughts and rhymes are true,
You’re wondering what they mean, aren’t you?
If I confessed, what would you do?
When they threatened, Salman knew
the salamander’s eyes were blue.
The phantom haunts me through and through.
All these rhymes and thoughts were true.

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