New York Jacks
Michael Angelo Tata

Imagine a white room, walls
spotless and a nice, white light
illuminating everything. And
some white CK’s, bleached
spotless, sinless, virginal,
all traces of urethral
activity carried sky-high
on surfer’s waves of
bioluminescent chlorine.

Outside, the Milky Way
glows in monstrous, white
neon bulbs twinkling at odd,
yet perfect, intervals.

The whites of his eyes are
what one sees before one
fires, and when one fires,
the stellar content of the
Milky Way is increased in
proportion to the force with
which milky arcs of skim
& 2% & whole are released
like machine gun fire into the
transparent air, into the ether.

Flagella guide eukaryotic
Swarvoski crystals toward
an Ibizan roundabout
jammed with the
rotating aurioles of
detached pectoral suction
cups, then find themselves
swept away by cotton
wisps, or else licked
clean by the hot, anxious
tongue of a bugged-
out baboon.

If lips touch, it
is only to release
the spark of Winter-
green Lifesavers, and
perhaps to trigger a chain
reaction whose radiation
would bathe chemosynthetic
sulfur factories with the
Big Gaffer glow of a
closed Jeff Stryker set.