o the times you poured a dour muscatel,
god, bastard—you are the wrong god seated
for this, our new wilderness. there is trash
that appears friendlier than thou. some neon
accusations—"Hoagies" and “Live Strippers”
and “Oil-in-a-Minute”—what is this skyline,

what is the _______. here in this miniature skyline
there are shades of smoky musk. do tell
all the minions of the flesh—strippers,
pornographers, painters—to be seated
and await the sermon. they will as neon
tubes be jolted to awakening. no more trashy

thoughts. yes, you, my dear god, trash-
remover in the sky, lord of sky and circle and line
and my best teacher, beam revelatory neon-
bright awareness. all theology is so much musculature,
flex’d on the weak or wicked, supposedly. sit,
will you? listen—like water—that which strips

away the _______ to a bareness. strippers
got it right: remove the rhinestones, that trash
(makeup, bras, ad inf.). all the johns seated
in the front row wear hats resembling the skyline
of Buffalo. they are, yes, intoxicated by muscatel
and various human whiffs. look at all the neon

reminding us of how real it is, that goddamned neon—
ungodly invention, luring us in. all the strippers
got us hooked on their new breast versions. muscatel
never tasted so good, realer than psalmery. trashed,
one can saunter through a really tiny kitten’s skyline
when hammered—gin, varied theocracies, etc. seated

at the podium, one can say “bitch-ass trick”; seated
at the podium, one can boom a voice distinct as neon
and farther and wider than any damned skyline
known to nobody but those in touch—strippers,
minions of “hellish agency,” professors, Eurotrash,
all knowledgeable on their coke and shiny muscatel;

seated ‘neath a neon skyline, bleach’d strippers
and sluts and hardy priests, all cheap, all get trashed
on cheap and heady and varied, all heady, muscatels.