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.