the spines flung

far fetched as three legged dogs

and leftover tea dregs

in the bottom of a mug,

buried in the cooler night 

of Rocky august purple flowers 

dancing the dyed evening gay

on the quiet inlet of Arapaho Bay,

Granby pines flowering clouds

sent roaring back from the northern shoals,

the coal of dead men's throats throbbing

callously as their hands barking to be 

cleaned with killer whale grease,

sea lions on the prowl in the feeding season

clean the tide pools for the autumn months ahead

offering earthquakes and hurricanes

on the humid horizon back on the Eastern Shore,

the chopping stone gallows of the Chesapeake Bay,

hanging there like some gray 

mangy street cat geeking in the dark 

all shifty eyed magnetic pulse waves

from the jostled crime punk jonesing for an oxy elixir, 

miracle methadone fixer as seen on TV--