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I watched Sad Max again the other day,
the essential existential post-
apocalyptic

Thriller
with the pop music

Haircut;
I realized they were jealous of my

Dream,
the other people in the theater;

I fed my popcorn to the screaming parking
meter; I wore my cleanest wife

Beater to the dance;
chained like a
dog 

To the pagan religion
in my pants

I had a fire on the
mountain
in the early morning
mist,

The sunrise wore a
nightgown;

The fire wore a
flower,

The flower shook a
fist

At the flames
flouncing through the forest
like a drunken buffalo
of gold;

The fire is getting
old;

It is limping through
the trees 

On knees of melted
cheese

Into a breeze of burning
ants,

And still I am not free
from the pagan

Religion in my pants

I missed the death bus
by an hour

Or maybe it missed
me

I plucked the monster from the
courtyard 

I tossed him in the
sea

I dropped a penny in the
stars

I stopped a revolution there,
by chance,

But I find it difficult not to adhere
to the tenets of

The pagan religion in my pants






July 2026