"Colors" starring Patti, Grandma, & me at twenty-five

Wherever you go there you are like Patti Smith's shoulders
placed in this cold century with a virility that lacks self-esteem
Paco says hang on & flourish

like Grandma Moses    I use her little legs & go to town
making scenes in which a dirty lover breaks
	down blushing assailants
in bra-training films    My college heartsprain
	harried & in sympathy with the damning empire
	
Guess I'll grow up to be as pink & mean as God
with spareribs, a Dutch vocabulary lesson
	which makes my uncle see red
eyes closed to peoples moorings, spoiling it

& a kid's liver gets smacked in on a jungle gym
vibrates beneath a bright sexual state
of the union address
	Poor Paco. Poor Jim Dine.
	
Audit trails are here again & I have never
smashed a black widow
	myself Forcefed horsemeat
	out in the sticks or
stark mad on the sidelines, some

brownies skip forward as in a fugue singing Horses through
with orangina, head gear, the "hispanic child rack"
transmuted into nerves & glory & this

the ruinous work of nostalgia
	in my august opinion
	in a turgid march
or my dream of becoming alive on a turnpike
like a two-ton hussy the way I
don't fall in at weight stations
	lighting the endless white race
	
with elbows, lymph stystems my valentine
& Grandma Moses sweating in an infinitely soft asylum