I Dream Beamships Equal Love
The Florida coastline is sinking;
its breath a famous conch shell,
seeks the rusty swing-sets of its past.
It takes out an ad in the Miami Herald.
The rest-stop could not understand
why I began ovulating Polaroids
of Vulcan-earred Asket from Timars.
Even the highway produced a conspiracy,
which I carried like a bottle of Sangria
to Billy Meier's birthday extravaganza.
We all sat on the lawn spitting out orange rinds,
and pointing to his trees.
"One was in falling-leaf trajectory right there, remember?"
He was amazed to learn his name
was mentioned in the ad. He looked like Santa,
the blinking lights of his beard.
He could not understand Spanish,
but he smiled and nodded.
He was so full of birthday cake.
When he arrived in Florida,
he became judgmental of its palms.
Now, he refuses to believe William Burroughs
died in Kansas. The lights of his beard never lie.
"Billy," they whisper, "Kansas."