out toward black oblivion as if it were his wife
and he was seeing her for the last time. And after

her scales sparkled and she drowned, she dissolved
into the water and then evaporated into the clouds.

And then he remembered things in bright bursts like
the black stitches across his face like little railroads

the large box of oranges he threw at the girl running
away, small puddles of ice cream everywhere. And when

the sunlight struck her, burning through her wetness,
she spent days dying on repeat and then coming back to life.

And then he became scared of these memories
and drifted off to sleep. And then when

she came back from her multiple deaths,
she clawed onto a place in a dream with

luscious green everywhere, lovely rivers
running, five-story watermelons to run

in circles around. And in his sleep
he saw many pretty girls and these

many pretty girls danced for him,
like majestic trees swaying but then

all stop to vomit gold and jewels,
everything becomes like a kaleidoscope,

and he dies and goes to Heaven. And then
she got a chainsaw and carved a cave

into the watermelon to climb into and some
of the pink-red innards collapse and she

dies and goes to Heaven. And when in Heaven
he starts to sing like he never knew he could.

He starts to dance like gravity does not exist.
He starts to feel a boundless love for everything

that he has never felt comfortable with before.
And there, in heaven with watermelon juice still

fresh and sticky all over her, she is overwhelmed
and starts to sob. And there in Heaven she gets

sent elsewhere and she realizes that her existence
will consist of falling from the sky, puddling, and

evaporation, forever, doomed to be eternal rain.
And there, in Heaven, he realizes he is not in Heaven at all,

he is at a rave.

Two floors of short-time ghosts,
a locked-up beauty shop, and dust;
now pulp writers rap about crime here,
and must shoot the fictional breeze on stage.
But, as the Eye on the case, I’ll cut to the chase,
the major heist is on the street,
and there’s fresh blood on the page.

Bent judges and psychopaths, hustlers and has-beens,
professional liars, Bangkok is a crime scene.
Hey, I was an Eye, wrestled crime for a living,
and still have a hunch for who’s making a killing.
The patriots and flag sniffers, feeling the force,
play patsy for billionaires, hit men, and punks,
they’ve closed down the city and cheered themselves hoarse,
till the tourists and hookers are packing their trunks.
Man, the hacks know the issue, but no one dares say;
destabilization is sent from upstairs,
since they can’t get joe public to vote the right way.
More generals than doormen, tear-gas everywhere,
there’s gold braid enough here to carpet a whorehouse,
gridlock on the streets, and a coup in the air.

Look, I’m just an Eye, with an odd tale to tell,
at a pulp writers’ gig at the Mambo Hotel.
But, outside? It’s for real, pal.
They’re guilty as hell.
You’d better believe it, they’re guilty as hell.