An excerpt from "On Parade."
And down the street
and here they come
from up the street
on down they come
along a line
along a road
along a tired urban aisle
whose awnings find stilettos
in staccato to beguile.
The promenade of promenades
a lemonade stand here, possession.
Wares that sell: they all transcend here.
Flares that flair? They end tomorrow.
Is to park here then to walk here
(making days with one, a corner)
just to mystify existences
or for once deny no longer?
Awesome masses walking en masse --
driven to, about, before us --
come from bottled, smothered lambs
to -- though mottled -- models! Hams!
Bless them once for understanding
after standing under hands
underhanded and demanding;
twice, for lasting under stands
staged to counter quelled demands
driven by that mottled look.
Mass creations of crescendo
recreated to contend, though
once berated for their tension,
get attention-getters going.
Up it comes, what lies beneath,
taking hopscotch by its teeth
pouncing granite like a yesterday
of molten personalities
while lava wearing snakeskin panties
molt and pull them off.
And in doing so so well
pant as lava spews about them
"putting on" to pull them off,
to pause once more
to have them lengthened
that is, screams about their panties
or their temperature
Where there's scars and laceration
I will show you celebration
and behold: this machination
we behold: patronization
of, perhaps, denomination
whose overwhelming adoration
is the cause for true sensation
and the reason for the song
and the reason for the song.