It is the end of this Age, because the server is nasty.
Distortion is distorted by thoughts to express how
the world is about to change for Floral, like Floral, like kisses

behind a ten-thousand-foot storm that immerses you.
America is now China 2.0. Low-carbon age is a faux.
China's mobile president is a grandpa; this, like classic

dialogue toilets. I feel super, ah, with speech segmentation
as if a woman is veiled by a bold, charming pity of a man,
arousing tolerance to the gesture of glory. What is really

a woman's mood? Artistic conceptions, states virtue,
I don't know, but I like the distinctive charm, that general
broad sea, enough for the imagination. It must be the end

when life on the vagaries is unreal, comes to dominate
the relaxing life of marriage, but a pulse that beats with
general intoxication & refreshing springs of nostalgia.

One must feel facial expression, movement of the heart,
giving a broader audience with more imagination.
All of these bones inside of me. The extra Read-Me signs

in the heartache-utopia of the night that I gave to you.
I cherished the treasures of you, your heart changing
seasons, computed by deviations, the way a bull reacts

not to disappear, & if we look back, what melody has
laid foundations of memory, as if with an alternative location,
ages like a knife, ruthless as if tears could mail our stories

to every refracted mis-communication, every city light,
& the lights of the city are jumping from the top of the turnbuckle.
I suppose I get thunderbolts where I ask for them. Me”–to–“I

ask for a picture of us under the intergrowth” deeper than
steep, cold Ontario, a chasm reading us, the light's fire
assuming attention, like a traveler without communication.

You resembled a quetzal, color of–seeing through you.
I could not map our HAX-speed like a ligament of poems,
but we sweated each summer day after the harsh winter

where we were holographic, & then your "ppsshh" landed
on my eyes, as if calling me an animal—days when I think
I should swallow my voicebox. You spoke negatively of

Ronald Reagan & you said that I was foolish.
Perhaps you were right. Perhaps I should copyright
your quotes, pass the torch to a communist news network

& start singing slightly off-key. You still love me, don't you?
I can feel it like the razor-edge of heat-sweltering days,
& I can hear your love loud & clear like the unmistakable

sound of cicadas in a tree. One fact about me:
the way Seuss constructed a fantasy world is not the way
I live in this world; instead it's like a large garden wagon

full of toddlers pulled by a tractor. A voice calls from inside,
like a pollen basket. You were my nucleus & that was
my downfall, like a bumblebee without the chorus of dawn.




Fidel Castro, without a cigar-in-mouth,
just made his first official government
appearance in four years, & I think,
Is this an unusual diss? Meanwhile
I'm thinking of new poems, new ideas
like Polafreuds. Retain the retina's fondle,
fiddle fiddling on the radio, light blinds
the devil as he went down to Georgia,
but he plays a serious role in job figures
being a part of the grim economic picture.
I see featured faces: "Barefoot & Pregnant."
Retin A for Retina. There is a mean-looking
little baby in an ad staring through my monitor
as if to say, "I can't believe you don't have life
insurance." This world, full of mystery,
gas-shush-ness, plaque pineapples & squirmy
Icelandic shelter-like off-loading archaic glasses
for iced days makes me feel legally stylistic
yet weathered. Physical populations on faces
here in this town. Illusions do not have to be
illusions if you do not want them to be,
so here I am, beyond all doubt, hoping to sing
but not hoping to be heard. In a cafe at night,
shadows flip & flop, like foretelling the arrival
of strangers, incomprehensible amidst the noir.