Taco Tuesday 11:35 p.m. Promises

Fingertips of softest octopus suction cups
or whirring little wheels of fur. And maybe
just a drop or two or three of deep sin oil.
Nail my tongue to the exposed garage wall
and step back, then step again, until a good
three, four, feet of licking’s left. Rhythm
of dogs, dolphins, horses, atomic clocks,
roofer hammers, hurricane shutters
loose on a Class Three, stutterer stuck
in an Independence Day speech on flag,
freedom, fireworks, f, f, f, f. Beg Vishnu anew
to haunt my flesh then write His holy verse
in you, again and again. Better yet, in 20 years,
I won’t be the one yelling for goddamn salt
and pepper at my end of the dinner table.