-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.
