Down On Mott

Garden pomegranates a soft
red, the lipstick was Max Factor;

conical missiles, eight,
“Picture the destruction…”,

circa 1978, “…of Jerusalem…”,
hyper-orange strafing careening,

speared ribs on Chatham Square
flames to illustrate, animate,

sketch Guernica in the eyes of
the visible mind.

Chi Mere water an end for adjacent
aesthetes, “…to defile…”

voluptuous alfalfa, buckwheat,

left to be sly, a little less,
than a godless sty.

Perceived small wishbone footing
his pride: gold prize-hen,

cobbles local Hebe rubes,
white vain glee, at games,

single space 5-Card Stud, Ching-
Dai Ding-Pai: ’round the horse

shoe (pass the analects),
steeped down on Mott

is Bergen County’s metronome’s
asylum, once sanctified.

Overstuffed, sooty ascent,
father’s outlined,

ancient, jalopy
spot’s clean squeak.