in my spambox, wasted energy, who creates
the time to send spadonic spam of paralytic
& bat-like blindness. Waste. This is all that
it is. Waste & more Waste. America, brave
& wasteful, peddled, straddled & unhinged.
Arthur Rubinstein died the year that I was
born. Polonaise-fantaisie in A-flat. Rusty
magnanimity, the floor this winter day is
damp. The snow glows, even on the darkest
of nights, speaks in a foreign perplexion
like some lunatic in an impromptu script.
A scurfy maiming of mind. Marat/Sade.
If I come back before I return to this
ideology, please tell me to wait. Puff-pasted
non-clouded skies. Turbo love. This is the
unmoving surge of cold that laughs like an
exhausted vocalist, scruffy throat, nearly
goat-ridden. Now, a final letting go. Cellist
of sight. I scratch & sniff the bottle of
Recluse juice, straddle it, flip it up, turn myself
inside-out for the wrong reason. Look at my
innards. All Nerfed. Touch me like an electric
piano of ragged neglectedness; re-invent
my second nature, like a Star Wars geek,
& take the breath right out of me so that
when I return myself to outside-in
my lungs will yearn, will burn with a passion,
to be swayed aloft from your thieving my
air passages. I am a crocus that blooms
in the shade, keeping my petals closed.
Don't move. My heartbeat is a shutter lens.
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