THE AGE OF AUGMENTATION
As I slice sacrificial limes under
a barbecue tree, balls of tar ride
angry waves onto the beach.
A dilapidated beard carries out its tribal
duties under a full moon with empty
hands running up the rearview mirror.
As I slam a stone into a garbled circle
three bumps from a bridge, Sunday
motorbikes surround a forest going deaf.
A disappearing chin counts the number of
clueless tree trunks splashing images in
the bottom of a turbulent conscience.
As I slide down the dark side of a dirty
morning scratching post with cat attached,
thunder puts the paranoid back in best-sellers.
A defeated spine goes Baroque on the back of
a beast that had scrubbed up real big in
the hands of a theologian on augmentation day.