This Function Is Onto

Onto this pavement I commit walking,
Walking like a staircase crawls,
Walking as bowling balls
That are hazel in the rain,
The rainbow-less acid rain,
Falling behind the dark twinkle factory,
On the infinite corner dust of 5th and Vine.

Onto this pavement I commit seeing,
Seeing like an onion rind reflection
Of the mad taxis and the telephone poles,
Who would pull tricks on grandpa post office,
And grandma box office,
Black and white,
Equipped with well-weathered magnet sopranos
Who sing of Hitler and Coca-Cola Dali's.

Onto this pavement I commit talking,
Stoner breaded babble,
Starless and buxom black with clichéd' punker spikes
That greased Eisenhower era Schwin bikes,
Whose paint mind-fucked in the sun
And banged the artsy Sodom hun
In underground Iranian-owned Los Angeles
Parking Structures.

Did all this sloppy seeing, walking,
And of course
California talking,
Ever feed the pigs?