Hollywood

changing the flow of the winter moon, orange
the fingertips of the women in bright red sale
sidewalks crack beneath the stare and the cold
and the alluring glide of legs through tinted
bottles and desperation sliding down pavement
like fresh rain mingled with oil. a sludge or
a taste if you will. a cheap burger with
saliva and cigarette ash for flavor. tulips
climb through the cracks, stretching for stars
reaching for candy through a sausage grinder
of junkies, and hookers, and Elron Hubbard.
it is a war. it is a race for rats, for
greyhounds. a talent lottery to feed the beast
that Machiavelli raised on huge slabs of meat.
Don Quixote tilted at the creature and it
ate him along with Sancho.
the beast likes flowers though
he’ll trample down every last one till he finds his
pretty, his starfuck to tear out, roots and all
to hurl at the screen, exploited like a
gang rape victim.
     Perhaps
          The
               Tulip
                    Consented
     Perhaps
          The
               Tulip
                    Was
                         Already
                              Dead…