Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Hot fry pan full of crayons
the pavement bubbles,
far off pig fat pops and squeals.

A struck piano g-string
on the industrial inlet wind
sides of beef waltz with headless chickens,

sex and bleach mingle with mercury,
argue empty wine bottles while
Grandview swings an uneven tempo.

Minds cinch until blue ideas bulge.
Pens plunge into paper skin
and stars are slowly scribbled on film.

Cigarette packages limp across drain grates,
scales weigh heavy on back alley faces,
only welfare cheques are friends.

Eastern smoke yellows the grass
to old pages, brittle as
ghostly Ed Bowes' bones.

A carousel horse whinnies,
then the rains wash down
and harden all to mother of pearl.

Ian Benjamin Green has been there before.