The Dalai Lama in a B.M. double-U
with two underaged hookers in the backseat
driving west on a beaten road--
strewn with fake fingernails,
rags once worth thousands, now worthless,
magazines of cebreties and magazines of bullets.

An orange sun sinks into the dust of the horizon
and coughs a little brown phlegm onto the windshield--
easily wiped away like the curd of a tear in the corner of the holyman's eye.
He is fleeing the curtains closing behind him,
fleeing the fleet of military geniuses hot on his tail,
chasing the sun that shall only ever sink from now on,
chasing the sun with shades on his eyes and pills on his tongue.

10/28/2008

Posted on 10/28/2008
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