Time is too fat for the Olympics
so a blowtorch lights my way
while Social Media onslaught
pumps toxins thru my speech bubble ellipses.
My mother tells me that she is always
depressed on Sundays. I didn’t grow up
with a Father, so my emotional problems
are like bizarre exit music on albums.
Warning: The recent propagandists for
Poetry would disappear if theater
reversed its scientism & came of age
like a French proverb dug out of a book
that announces the coming of the
Age of Unfairness. I sacrificed myself
on top of the Georgia Guidestones:
that bloody-looking spot isn't blood.
It’s a post-Romantic vomit spot.
This is as morose as I’m going to get
because I’m not trying to rectify
telephoning you every half-hour
for contending with my own introverdness,
& will this severe drought peel itself off
like waxy skin & sling sodas at these
summertime blues? Oh, this muddy water
I’m in. I’m in the art-for-the-artist crowd,
tracking down precincts, spying in a
see-through door; I’m a drawn curtain
that you paint while you multiply yourself
justifactorily to subsequently become
as aloof as everyone else with disorders.
We’re all borderlines. On the verge
of something. Layers of this. Layers of that.
Numbers not quite numbers that appear
in other forms; their rivals’ squelching,
too pleased to believe how one’s sins will play
catch-up. The butterflies are gone; you’re
no longer enthusiastic about my existence
& are you still attracted to the same sex?
I watched as you eyed attractive women
the way that I stared at the lizard crawling up
& down your parents’ curtains in the
living room while we watched The Count
of Monte Cristo. Am I still irritating, or
have I become merely semi-annoying?
My attraction is like a scientific invention
gone wrong; my sexiness is sagging shallowly
in your Physiognomy Treatise. Oh well,
I’ll just become a seer, banging these
same ol’ drums with the hands of Orlac.
Have you ever noticed that there’s something about
Yesterday that’s always unique to today’s calling?
I want to be told the truth, harshly, confronted
to the face like the Apostle Paul to Peter.
I come with a rod or a magic wand (two sides of).
Can you grasp the fact that my
skinny-dipping skin is like hopscotch
in the rain: the chalk-lines are invisible, like
your sassy silence, dystopic like a ripped flag
clutched by the hands of a dead General’s daughter.
so a blowtorch lights my way
while Social Media onslaught
pumps toxins thru my speech bubble ellipses.
My mother tells me that she is always
depressed on Sundays. I didn’t grow up
with a Father, so my emotional problems
are like bizarre exit music on albums.
Warning: The recent propagandists for
Poetry would disappear if theater
reversed its scientism & came of age
like a French proverb dug out of a book
that announces the coming of the
Age of Unfairness. I sacrificed myself
on top of the Georgia Guidestones:
that bloody-looking spot isn't blood.
It’s a post-Romantic vomit spot.
This is as morose as I’m going to get
because I’m not trying to rectify
telephoning you every half-hour
for contending with my own introverdness,
& will this severe drought peel itself off
like waxy skin & sling sodas at these
summertime blues? Oh, this muddy water
I’m in. I’m in the art-for-the-artist crowd,
tracking down precincts, spying in a
see-through door; I’m a drawn curtain
that you paint while you multiply yourself
justifactorily to subsequently become
as aloof as everyone else with disorders.
We’re all borderlines. On the verge
of something. Layers of this. Layers of that.
Numbers not quite numbers that appear
in other forms; their rivals’ squelching,
too pleased to believe how one’s sins will play
catch-up. The butterflies are gone; you’re
no longer enthusiastic about my existence
& are you still attracted to the same sex?
I watched as you eyed attractive women
the way that I stared at the lizard crawling up
& down your parents’ curtains in the
living room while we watched The Count
of Monte Cristo. Am I still irritating, or
have I become merely semi-annoying?
My attraction is like a scientific invention
gone wrong; my sexiness is sagging shallowly
in your Physiognomy Treatise. Oh well,
I’ll just become a seer, banging these
same ol’ drums with the hands of Orlac.
Have you ever noticed that there’s something about
Yesterday that’s always unique to today’s calling?
I want to be told the truth, harshly, confronted
to the face like the Apostle Paul to Peter.
I come with a rod or a magic wand (two sides of).
Can you grasp the fact that my
skinny-dipping skin is like hopscotch
in the rain: the chalk-lines are invisible, like
your sassy silence, dystopic like a ripped flag
clutched by the hands of a dead General’s daughter.
