Steven’s Platinum

covered in ketchup and mustard
grassy motherfucker with crab’s claws
claws and grovels into the dirt behind the abandoned
contemporary art building
the old El Nido Triangle,
unburies his – 100th bible – while
buskers and babes watch from the misty sidelines
moaning and sighing in sign,
moist waffles, moist in the puddles of mud–
Steven Howard Jr., now Sony
executive Dr. “Crab” Spencer,
freelance child psychologist,
who reduced his whole train staff into
biblical pages, paces around the office,
its sandy beaches vacant and holy,
et al.
Steven praises the Artificial Difficulty,
but knows when to retreat into his cabana.
From a short distance, he sees
an empty white row boat released
from the halogen cove, OFFICE 4 twenty 1.
Splash! Steven,
twitter pic steve_jr.gif,
tweets “got my first #plat!” and how many shares
and re-tweets, hit me up, I’m sublime, sweating bullet drops,
desert oil, not liquid gold but platinum–
but I guess
only level six


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