From the Greek
By Erik Kestler

We sat so sung, the crowd and I, in the perineum.
Hell at home, pink slips waiting for us
in our dreams of the office.

Here, the show was clanking out of the shadows.
Sinister, beautiful frog first arriving,
marching a baton he used to cripple

a tuxedoed, tattooed man mocking Cain.
Then the aorta performed a song
as we all clutched the edges of the fourchette,

mouths wide as sails, wet as an Eighth Sea...
What followed, color and headache,
proceeded by a hawk lifting a snake far over nearby mountains.

I gave the woman in the seat over a smooch,
not too paraphilically.
Later, resumed my job at the mushroom factory with the greatest glee.