Cherished trail of transactions, report me.
Guide my car. Stamp my tkt. Sign the chk.

The burbling machines, the tickering.
Vast appetite to have and hold, to add

to the corridor of record, so raucous
everything becomes (inaudible)

transitory and indelible
as the prick of a tattoo artist

setting his colors with syphilitic spit
that works its way into the shoulder

in the weeks at sea, where the sailor’s
needlepoint roses, heavy-headed

peonies burst the flowerpot of skin
like cigarette ash, like blooms.