cLOUDDEAD Follow

on our perpetual bus ride home, slowly,
we were all muzzle moutheded and
rushing ice cream to the fridge at the crib.
it's the same old new moon,
gagging on the abc so on
that our colons have for us.
now back to the bus:

enter three blacks. a couple plus another;
his half finished hair:
white yarn extensions of herself.
his face painted rainbow
and bags on his hands
turned inside outside inside out.

the couple, in the bus belly air of punched out time,
squirm with a static-starting laugh.
they laugh (ha ha ha ha ha),
standing for some nose-bitten high school status,
sandblasted heterosexual samples on a slide of glass.
don't they know you can't make somebody
on the verge of such self discovery
feel uncomfortable?

this whole busload of hydrogen, carbon, and secrets,
umbilical doorbell to a-frame attachment, property
rights, poker face of the globe maker's daughter,
the whole empty zipped whore house secrets, secrets,
all coming out of its face.

full-faced mask with
i-don't-want-to-say-soul
bottomed eye holes.
step out of your face
and back onto the carbon
based bus you're on.

we got off the bus
at 29th and Broadway,
same place we got on.
it kept going.
nothing happened.
we wrote it down
to give you eye holes.
fuck the blindfold.

how much can a bus coast?
open your mouth or get off the bus.
we got off to save our groceries
feeling like we should have stayed
for three more stops.

"a man was died,
a baby born,
and heard...
a plane flew over Broadway.