RALPH MONDAY
August

Comes in golden, buttery, a woman's
Promise, the lion wedded to the virgin
then turns hard edged like a suicide's
Razor bloodying soft membranes.

Sahara heat offers no relief, the basilisk sun
An unrelenting heat disk spilling out molten
distress like Pennsylvania steel solidified
In a back alley in Tunisia smeared by drunks

Tended to by Las Vegas whores.
No one knows how to properly clean up
the mess.
Thirty-one days like the Four Horsemen

Cleaving twenty-two music heads hopped
On the day's particular joy dreaming polar
images, ice and short skirts, the Augustan mystery
Tuned to a modern apocalyptic millenium.