What was Forgotten on the Backburner has Boiled Over
Exploding into the rubber barrier of dead self by reading into the sex of transportation; car engines and bike pedals; touching open a void. Lather my experience into your religion, I'll cure the majesty.

stop.

Ages ago I created a menangerie; now it stares at me, unimpressed and with a certain degree of loathing:
Beneath the mattress are cramped cages housing warm fur and scampering legs, things that fuck and breed en masse with beady eyes holding out for love and space. Taxed, abiding by an instinct to hunt, the best I can do is collect, constrained by the Slow Mad Industry of a Malignant AnarchoDreamScape.

stop.

So i asked for the medication; it was a challenge. In a twist of fate I was asked to bless the most restless of seating over months of smoking cigarettes, poring over maps of the most useless escape routes, Rude Goldberg's contemplations of a Rorschach test, or maybe vomit.

stop.

How to play the game of questions frozen on lips,
cold symbol shattered from their own frozen fortitude,
negate the magnitude
(in a manner of speaking)
And still-- in this regime of once again and nothing new
where is the body?
We are quiet resolve masking slow panic and

stop.

Bring us back to earth with some fleeting instant of flash photography.
head in fishbowl, all sound transpires in muted colors
--and i am left here:
transcribing spirals; catseye; looking glass
as all the blood-bubbles from the edges of the world
(in the post-shock, life after cardiac arrest)
becoming hardened marbles
to be swallowed as sacrament

stop.

Feed us to the wind:
we will plant radios in old soil and
elevate that rhetoric
to the dusted pedestals of pedagogues and dead gods
if only to watch them fall
(that is)
the crayon scratches on the wall
the counterpoint, confusion of the yes and the y'all

stop.

Whim and worlds collide
to empty us
of that intangible suspect
the disease: eCoNomY
and autonomy earned means the death of the self-spurned,
Self-Saboteur,

so?

love looks good on me:
an ornamental headdress,
picked apart from the same wingtips
that brought me too close to the sun,
dressed in feathers from the flight
(and consequent fall)
weathered by the weight of it all.