Perfume passed balloon,
and the crawling machine
along wick of wax, that
dripping, melted round thin

cloud line and smiling the walls
 of this perfume machine, through
 space station , a small room  --
epicenter -- looking for forever, the

 hairs, a fabrication as the mentality
 blossoms into orchid wax relief,
munching on an electric orange, a
Louisiana hour -- 25 watts --

who's digital dog? When
we find a parasite -
spaced out here in station
 230 - we breathe fire

 all the way to the lake --
 swing the skyline - Leroy
shakes the limbs of the tree
 like a very old chandelier  -

the limbs of a mammal curve
 the elements into the shape
of a brain, some houses off
 limits to the operator -- A

clear disguise, and for hair
pasta -- and after long circles
of the same painting - the same
 fabric in rug - after the exact

 pattern empties out to the
 flower bed at the end of
each night - a muttering love
 occurs , a meek tongue through the mask

Steel method -- mouth around -- angled chow mein power line
pouring fourth in a laughter -- the mouth holds
dozens of balloons -- they seem to peek around corners
of the oldest  house built in America -- I slept in it
last night -- built by the Spaniards. A hat hangs
here, a door laughs so hard its falling  from its
hinges -- a coat turns into the six foot
tall ghost of a man haunting the
top floor porch -- he used to bleed
little girls on the second floor -- back when
the smell of bodies could not be recognized
through all of the horse shit in the streets --
New Orleans fights over who’s building is oldest
some French tour guide argued that this
building isn’t as old as the english buildings
up the street while at his desk surrounded
in flyers for swamp and alligator tours,
munching down his meat infested
Po Boy sandwich -- each room that you
enter here is a private quarters you
have entruded on --