With that being said,
What do you figure
will happen when
America’s eyeballs free
from sorrow is without its
hag-like mannequin to
drag along drags, free
of sorrow like leftover smells?
On Highlands Parkway now
I feel secluded in a room
full of “eat or be eaten”-types
& those who suffer under
the moon’s saliva-froth
ice-snapping beamy fingers—
WHERE is my castle, my
Secret Service vets, my
interview on YouTube, my
White House yuppy, my
America, O my America,
where are my Internet chats
from 1997 catalogued
in this great aether?
I may loom over
the pickled Land of dreams,
where all we have now
are dreamers, who draw
with delicate fingers lines
in the soils of their
souls like a covert military
incursion of introverts
& ride-or-die chicks
that undermine the masterminds.
God, it’s so great to live
on the post-2012 earth:
Mayan Predictions gone astray
like a whistling ladybug,
but the same pang
in this beating bulb of mine raw
like the head of a greyhound,
& I stop in & say Hello
to a mother named Mother Nature
who is a freak of nature
like vintage Lincecum, vintage
last-name-dropping as if I’d been
paid-off. The war has just begun!
The good guys never lose.
The good guys are the bad guys
disguised as good. What is an alpha
male’s Internet Life like?
Challenge: if you’re expecting
a child, disregard the Baby-Name
Books & simply wait for the next
“named” tropical storm—relief!
I’m dressed in America’s
disappearing act, out of gas, out
of time, up out of the pinwheel
saddeningly gorgeous mangled
atmospheric-precarity into the
king or queen’s next of kin.
Haggard hurriedly, unable
to remember catastrophes,
readymade girdle, reiterated to
the she-devil that magic
dissolves through my head
like a glass-winged butterfly.
But windows are made to crack.
I see into your belly,
a kingdom cursor of red lights,
blue lights, a black box,
a neon sign blinking, a horse
named Taze Me. I understand now
every fable you ever told. My bird
amplifier voice forwarded
through ensuing gag reflex
premonitions & the weight
of underwater virtual realities.
The Vagus Nerve proves my head’s on
straight. I rise to view the sunrise
misfire on areas sunbeams usually hit.
This seems to spook the flowers.
I stretch, hearing my backbone’s
popping echo in harmoning vocals
in the adjoining room, deflouring
future hours. The end
of incessant snow-scattering
bonuses of the mortal petals
of bogusflakes like you & I.
Is it the wind in the Body
that’s a wrangled riddle?
Earthquakes in our veinlets.
Seasons as personages:
Spirit, Soul, Body: Aeolus
has detached my winks.
April’s a lost painting
of white unvarying, variables,
like one winter when my
grandmother lost her dentures.
Later, I found them chattering
in the freezer, looking back at me
in surprise. At that moment,
I expected snowswirling gusts
to burst through the kitchen windows
& clamp upon my belly
that perennially flip-flops
like a fish out of water.
