________________________________________________________

Cat-hair floating around, as if from tailpieces.
My nose is chalk, my throat caffeinated.
I have two perverted uncles, both in their eightees,
who stare at women's breasts. Sexualized gazes
of youth--does it never diminish? Our visualized
culture of hungry vultures causes breasts to
function as masks. Eye-lust for the heifer.
I am trying not to listen to your jungled mouth.
I cut glue off of random objects to see them
become themselves again. This, like the atrocity
of pressure. I prop upon props. Vantage-points
can become limited so I will kinescope, in black
& white & color, what cannot be seen until
it shows itself. The end of escapism.
Your television has a name & so does your vehicle.
Illusion is insulated for the Insulatable Everythings
within the realities of the world in which we live.
Thus, I stick my head through the holes in the
atmosphere & shout to the heavens. Holograms
groaning deep within my ears; these little
caves of mine, I'm gonna make them shine.
Grind out the text of a poem, falter at the starting point,
reiterate what needs to rotate when contemplation
sparks itself into a flashlight-happening,
little tears in the baby's eyes fall to the floor,
this is like the puddle I slip on, this, the puddle that
is slipped on, filled with the tears of the world gone by,
books on how to cry, which way to cross the intersection
when your feet are heavier than lead like a boxer's hands
during & after a bloody body-blowing bout.