Megan, a prophet walks the hot red sand searching for wild peyote,

The world turning inside out and upside down he doesn’t pretend to know what it’s all about as he waits for the Wall Street demonstrators to do battle with the Tea Party with pitchforks and pepper spray, the cops staying away on strike hanging out at bars in the neighborhood, Megan, put your red boots on, you smell like candy and your ass is the color of mint chocolate, put your red boots on and walk the snowy hills of Upper Montclair, Minnesota, Colorado and North Dakota, Bob Dylan in china and Neanderthal man in his flowery grave in Turkey and Iraq was not borne of chaos and Jesus Christ never existed and Zoroaster would hate what he’s done to the place, I do not see the corpses standing at the window where everything is strange, flatfooted and surreal, braless and uncensored—

We love skanks and skanks love us, your ass in the window making love like a monkey, kicking off your flip-flops in the full-length mirror as rich skeletons walk the highway like Japanese zombies and washing your hands like Pilate in his frayed skinny jeans, Megan, you are not Japanese, you are not a lesbian, and you are not a mother of three, dreaming of coyotes and cowboys, depressing French films that are midnight classics—

Basquiat, van Gogh and Picasso peeing in Sailor Moon’s face in Paris where African girls in Greek masks chew tobacco and spit in the Sikh’s Vitiligo riddled face, the one that shot Indira Ghandi and gave Charles Darwin a blowjob for the movie rights to evolution and Madam Pompadour masturbates beneath her shaggy blue wig, Megan’s butterfly eyes scolding the city and burning the countryside with wildfires of hot blue flames, Basquiat wanted to be bourgeois so bad it killed him—

The street reared up like a tiger bred in a factory, toxic breath and bacchanalia

And the underage girl on the toilet, her sky blue tights around her ankles wanting to be a supermodel, the pornographic prophet going to college, Native American and Spanish slamming the Eurotrash girl in the mouth with a bottle screaming about the revolution in heaven as Satan looks on and Saint Michael picks up his guitar and strums folk tunes as

Job and his Japanese lover tumble to the road from a classic red Stingray high on cocaine and heroin as the black and white sun somersaults through the sky, she’s fifteen and he’s eighty, her mother unconscious on the roadside, her grandmother a kabuki geisha sucking the same shogun cock year in year out—

A Greek Orthodox transgender priest with an eager little boy’s hand down her pants, the little boy looking up in surprise, his mother loving the warm Mediterranean sun, whipped until she bleeds in the same dank medieval dungeon where she studies kabala,

The ancient days have long passed; there are no vegans in outer space,

Jasmine’s pussy stinks like salmon and no one is getting laid tonight—

Revolution; evolution; entropy; look at the shitty halitosis filled world we live in—

This is not the 80’s, you are not an Impressionist, and De Sade wouldn’t touch you with a white-hot poker, she pretends to be insane, but she’s not really, drunk as a Hollywood movie monster,

Megan, the prophet waits for you in the dessert high on peyote,

She likes to pee in a cup and he likes to drink it and sometimes he’ll drink it from her red boot, no one can tell the women from the men anymore, they all smell like the river, the vaginas filled with mud, the penises thrown into the street, as filthy right-wing sluts suck cops’ cocks in the backs of trucks at truck stops to Rush Limbaugh on AM radio, the black and white sky turns kaleidoscopic rainbows as I run to Megan in the rain, between the menstrual blood and flower power she’s not a child, she’s not Italian, she was born in Korea and raised as a Jew on the Upper East Side, a resurrected Neo-Nazi Disney princess