HOLIER THAN THOU MOUNTAIN

Your tio's three-story brownstone in Weehawken
purely haunted by that feminine Jodorowsky critic

beholden to volcanic temples of blood
the diorama of Tenochtitlan with conquistador toads
& Aztec lizards. American lady-tourists with gold-plated pussies.

That specter has sat flush on the berth of that house
for years, hovering over the blankets of visitors from Los Angeles,
slow-dancing with gas-masked Gestapo
in the bunkers of the ballrooms.

Whenever we eat outside I look anywhere
but the sadistic windows for fear 
of seeing her voyeuring me.