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clasp       on my head   on the stirrups   on the bridle    onward

A Patriotic, Technocratic Salute to Commonized Ignorance

Snapped together, burnt crisp-thin like a wafer in a semiconductor manufacturing facility

The edges creep up on me

Repeat their stated purpose

And rearrange like pixels on a camera’s CCD

Diagnostic arrangement, chosen but not for color or for color’s sake

Shaken, in line with all the others who have been rattled and put in discomfort

Disarray for the living and dead and holden back, holden truthful, holden for the fastest, smartest, youngest dumb people on the planet

The nest of broodlings is dissipating fast, and there’s no answer on the phone machine when a call center in Pakistan is in charge of repairs and transactions

Clientele, sign me up for your largest rewards program, I need the boost

To the stars and back, to the moon at least a few times, and to the tennis court for a thin layer of film broadcast amongst the television living rooms of America the Dumb, Captain thin-pants

Captain of the Royal Academy

Captain of behest and all that requests more information than is hygienic under personal and corporate privacy laws

Seven Days in a Week, Five Fingers on a Hand, or, Dying Star, Second Chance, or, Dying Star, Always with Another Chance

Happy to see me Friday

Happy to see me Monday

The blues and the doldrums reverberate and chitter in my teeth until I am a pile of dust and sand decaying at the bottom of the ocean

Not afraid of repeating the past

Seven opportunities to readjust the meaning of my life

I am canine, vapid, and opaque

Adjustable like a tennis net

And croquet-ing my way to the top, to stardom

The finite ultimatum of a dying star’s life cycle

Shapeless, or, Hymn

How to shape red

How to shave so close to the tongue

The tongue aligns with the gong

Long since gone, bells reverberating gently, like ghosts, in the mind

And the Kalpa is unimaginable

It passes

And I set like plaster all over the space laid out in neat lines

Abrasive and caught stationary relative to the fruit of the Time that Sees

Around, vernacular, being that

It is come to be

And regular, stitched together, welcoming

Strangers, to the path


With honesty and regard

For Nature

Of all things still

Stop and Go

And I waste my time

Cashing my checks at the payday lenders

Buying chips and cookies

Eating a nutritious meal

Longing for the morning cypresses to tower above my frail humility

And I wander amidst the skeletons on the subway

Craving fetid remorse

Pitying myself

Pruning the messages I craft for others in the way

And I eat the fallen tree

Like it is the broken spell

A circle of salt and burnt herbals

Incantations to soothe a rubbish mind

And I careen through the maze of the towers

Guarding my passage

Pitying me

Spying on me

Letting go of their one pupil

Never saying More, never saying Less