___________________________________________

To get a tongue
-implant to
talk slicker

than Dick Cavett,
a multiple "I": I
will be back soon

to bug you.
This
is not

a love poem,
it is a love scrotum.
My dreams

should receive
Oscars & Grammys,
& many people

would perhaps
echo the same
for Joe Brandt's

1937 vision
of an earthquake
demolishing

Los Angeles
"in the future"
(but before,

complete silence;
not a bird in sight).
While the world

is anxious & worried,
answering with
iPhone-dialogue,

full of vigor
& sneering
flawlessness,

I cut through
emerald grasses,
rush through

traffic with
"heavy feet,"
skim through

rural gardens,
remove stems
from seeds of

fruit, sip tea in
multi-colored
orchards, as if

it were all
fundamental
warm-up drills.

Late last night
while driving
on the long

dark highway,
poems
were being read

on the radio.
Someone read
a poem

by William Blake
& were straining
their voice.

I will check later
for cracks
in the windshield.

I felt like
becoming
a behaviorist.

There is no limit
to indefinite
detention,

like attempting
to reduce the size
of a mouthpiece

so that it fits
the shape
of someone else's.

Only fools
never expect
legends to die,

& when it
inevitably occurs,
it is like

blacking out
a blinker.
How soon

I forget
that I
am not non

-reversible,
like the throb
of an engine.

From the prequel:
be careful
on that bridge

that wobbles
underneath your feet.
There are ducks

flying above
a car
in the distance,

or are those
vultures? No,
too small.

Perspective
can often
provide one with

half-truths
& unsupported
assertions

that follow you
like a bright shadow,
to be used

through nonlinear
interactions.
While you are

into all that ugly
fashion, why not
get some frizzy hair

overlaid with a haze
of anonymous
lightning of linking,

like some inward
camera-obscura.
Voices click here.

I will cut
a window
into an old one,

riffage of light
like sumptuous melodies,
a kind of

Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah
animation,
like how

a child's brain
is futuristic-filled,
like how

I would read
Popular Science
magazines

while sitting on
the toilet as a child
when visiting

my Grandparents
during the holidays
on Lake Oconee.

It was all about
the spaceship
-looking vehicles.

I remember
how my Grandmother
reacted

when I asked her
if I could have
the newspaper

that showcased
a day-old deceased
Kurt Cobain.

What really put it
over the moon
was how she

handed it to me
after momentary
lapses of contemplation.

Found written in a journal of mine:

Somewhere in the world, January 2010:

"Roadside killing,
bodies thrown"

"Two, passport
problems not solved"

"attackers had
heart attacks, death"

"Generator remained
stuck in the shawl"

"Kidnapping was
seeing kidnapping"

"Father killed
in front of son,
the sun"

"95 thousand
from Airtel showroom
looted"

"Womens' bodies
disappeared
from the blood!
Five arrested
in the hunt"

The outside world
is nothing
more than

an enormous
website. I hear
thunder.

Or is that
someone
knocking

on the door?
There is
a forced absence

in this area.
When a book
is closed

shut, the image
is unseen.
There is

nowhere
to flee,
like childbirth.