candy. fruit. the undersides of mushrooms. tulip and garlic bulbs. red onion, radish. toy
assault weapons. red wisk detergent bottles. mosaic — walks, walls, even graffiti angels
and devils. gaudi.
on a building
turist you are the terrorist–
the dripped black letters
pastel carousel horses around the corner from so many blood brown cloven hooves
strung on meat hooks. a street mime pinocchio with the cricket on his sleeve. and
sleeping beauty, who offers up a serpent in one hand, an apple in the other. the bulge
of her vinyl breasts.
kiosk postcard snaps of dishy women kissing each other, some looking criminally
insane. the giant billboard of dali’s “great masturbator”.
silvery fish on ice
a man seated at a café
his scared eyes
the floodlights. packaged in rows of corrugated box cartons; each bell-shaped glass
bulb rendered in rounded, thick, black strokes holding pinkorange pools of light,
endlessly repeating, pulling you in.