Thursday, October 6, 2016

I ALWAYS RECOGNIZE STRANGERS AS IF I HAVE SEEN THEM SOMEWHERE BEFORE


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. 



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