1. ON THE DAYDREAM YOU WERE CREATED

In the Land of the Pickpockets
the tiny police are rare jigsaws.
Where do I march like a soldier
but in these pigments of madness.
 
I’ve gone beyond the “cut-off
number” of the labeled “absurd”
10^-50, but faster than 10^-43.
My living is an abbreviated lung,
 
forcefields strong enough to
mangle the memory of Caesar
into lifeless thuds, nearly burnt out.
O God where is my maple-honey?
 
This eel of placelessness! You flee
like seeing some Yes-Man hiding
behind a houseplant somewhere.
I found a cornea in our old seabed,
 
more physical than physics. Reflex
or Shadow: truth tremors like a
nappy hairdo, a sacred pipsqueak.
Nimrod hunted men down, saw fire
 
-balls reign from the heavens. In
The Most Dangerous Game, you
play well—my guardian angel blocks
bullets from the rifle: the smoke
 
-plumes you see are the secrets of
a kilometer thing. Will you soon
see me in some Octobergold sky?
Choir-faced sadness. Vegetation
 
of thighs. Wayward elevator I’m on
for good.