Our food is filled with tumors,
all the obligations
of this spray line of lithium trails that veils our world.
but time flies for no dude.
dry snitching for a juice card with the duck
for a stainless steel ride or parole to paradise
on a karmic roulette wheel, they deal me in
with brake fluid, bug juice and wolf tickets to sell
in a ghetto penthouse, picking up road kill in peels
before the ninja turtles insectival with their monkey mouths
go "if you dance upon the blacktop you go dutch."
December’s mildewed decadents sigh
a meta-amphetamine meta-languaging
Rodriguez the Sugar Man