And the casino stays open
Living life so hard you forget about
the tick and the rock of the clock’s cradle,
catting the walls that hold you so in
and dear, I pray you come near
and harvest fear for we grow trees for soup
and pearls and jewels to seem more cool,
We dream about Actavis hi-tek codeine, so cool,
and jackpots; about
scratch-offs, expensive soup,
drop-offs, blow-offs, drop-tops, baby cradle,
and lobster. The aliens are abroad, not near,
and so on, so far to give nod to a gone-swished hoop-in,
and fly through by in a coop, in
LA, just to get stopped by a crook cop, cool-off
and drop your crock pot of co-caine you were cooking near
the slots, to see if the crown near the jackpot spot is about
too drippy and iffy of essence; a sort of benevolent malevolence, cradling
a cognitive dissonance spilling hot ambivalence, like hot soup
onto your thighs, they singe, sweet soup,
fever flavor hot skin burns within
and stings with the touch to cradle
the glass porcelain toilet seat– pass out: the ground cool.
And now, please, again, refill my prescription about
now. An ambulance, with flamboyance, a candy stripers near,
can the stripper sit down quicker? Come near,
cowlicks stay, engraved for life. We are souped.
No more bickering or hollering about
this or that, limp neck, drop head, give in
and let the past cool-down.
Been numb since the cradle-cap.
And I tried my hardest, so if it comes out sideways, cradle me.
I planed home-ways, I know no way, that, you know, nowhere near
what we say, we say no to those who do not do what we say, cool
shallow breath, and let the beat control our body soup.
Steady your breathing, open your nose, blow short, in-
hale soft & quick–now faster– you are what my life is about.
Cradle to grave, you know what I’m talking about.
And just gut my innings, fuck the winnings, come on in,
It has cooled. You may relax now. It has cooled. The soup.
Levi Corallo: "I am a queer, unpublished, 21 year old writer attending Rutgers University."