Tintinnabulation happens for the unknown legend in the sleeping hours.

In my dreams,
she waters Calvary with visions of redwoods
falling like skyscrapers
over a voluminous flood of lies.

The angry earth forces landslides;
an explosion of brickwork
keeps her on the run
from the calumnious school of gossip.

She and I are master builders,
chasing designs through instruments used to cut and shape things.

There is no grade system for the work we do,
and these muscular bodies have proven useless
under the crushing weight of corporeal developments.

Appetites fade.
A frying pan in the face wakes the teeth's nesting place.

Birds speak of saving moths from incandescent calamity,
but a sneeze on a bright day, a well intended telegram,
can no longer hold us from surfing ruinous corridors,
a glimmering tunnel from where we exit,
stretched across our boards,
exhausted by the servitude of our desires' mesmeric swan song.

This spectacular derailment is only a belief,
a sketch of a train thrown from the track
at ten past midnight
sliding into a frozen lake,
a single hole punched through the thick ice
wide enough to swallow the machine dream.

The silvery afterglow is his Spyder Porsche 550, one of ninety,
speeding from the expectations of shutterbugs.
It touched the helm of the San Andreas Fault Zone
between the Chalome Hills
and Temblor Range,
'the little bastard.'
He's discarded now beyond the flashbulbs;
his wrecked smile is legendary.

The shelter of her white dress,
blown up in a volcanic eruption of paparazzi,
is where the emptied cups, toasted and clinked,
are tossed:

To a sexless existence!
To the statue of a man
made to mold a woman
into an advertisement for a ring.