Daily Progression

Daily progression turns to flies in a jar startled by noises.
I think of cutting my hair again but there are too many
intermissions & mental subterraneous eruptions of interruptions.

The other night I dreamt that I had a head full of hair.
I smiled in the mirror caressing my long fern-like locks;
a velocipede into inter-specifics. I felt volatile yet sastified.

Shouldn't Woody Allen be bald by now? I observe dusty particles
in the sunlight like a wide-eyed pony staring at a single rawhide loop.
Sure, I wanted to leap overboard like a paranoid squadron

onto a boggy underground at the chance to fructify my stance
to be a harmless poison in the nuclear fallout root-system of your love.
A formulaic horror opus is every relationship. A deep ant-hill.

I should cut my hair again but scissors & electric razors
are the enemies to a hive of flourishing or unflourishing hair.
My head will soon be as oddly silvery-transparent as moonworts.

What few ears have escaped no place whereby to contract
a reason to enquire the groaning bite of Listening?
Old men & their hairy ears, lavender glaze in The Hearing.

Hoist colors to my eye-ladder, germinate these dreaming pupils!
I move like a sideling to see refractions & go swiftly backward
like a lobster to the glow-worming youth, perhaps when hair

flowed over my forehead. Organs playing within my organs.
No music can cure nostalgia. Instead, the tunes only confirm
the harmonies of memory content to rest in secrecy.