When my mind is one of condensed gloom
I forgo the twitching arrow of resolve and opt
for calisthenics, the bob and collapse of repetition.
As I breathe I'm bewitched, imbibing
an impeccable fodder, this float between meals.
I will take on any table--separating
my food into camps before smashing it into squares.
We're tethered to air. Loss will throw fits at this discovery.
Its mouth is all mumbles. Nostalgic pulp.
So go figure: my own commas play tricks on my toe taps.
And God knows those steroids haven't helped.
But if ancient men's dreams are dismissed on the floor mats
like the fallout of scratch cards then mine trigger happenstance--
a limbo-like stretch of aquariums and bottled saint corridors
where the childish hunt for accessories, shorn of their downy invincibility.
How I coveted the con man's valise! His pittance of aftershave. Purple nails.
Now, on the wrestling mat of wafer an ant flexes its antennae.
And my arm downing shots again, beholden to everything silver,
so susceptible to the song that envisioned my grief
as some spectacle, hissing and burdened with light.
I want to feel what the debutante feels.
A past pinned, reorchestrated. Such a waist, such a waist.
Yes, there are causes unabbreviated by time.
Like the causes that require change of wardrobe.
Some western get up? An aerosol doom?
The mind is too much for itself, entrenched
in its cubicle, the snuggest resistance
to the needle's inquisition, its mannerly throb.
Not to mention the slo-drip. Here monotony.
Sure I’ve experienced raptures but nothing like this.
My own personal mantra stitched into a slice of bologna.
They’ve launched another franchise into space.
So I’m left to loaf some more in the extremely magical forest.
I can say what you see but I’m lost on me.
Now, exactly how many calories does froth have?
Imagine yourself on this beach sans the grizzle.
All the light and its offspring, unintelligible space.
Wait, I have to take this because I’m important.
Well, you’re quite plucky yourself, mister-sir!
A new Babel of mattresses, factory-priced.
The longer history of tycoons and gigantic rodents.
Who’s idea was it to have at my entrails this early?
Those there are my “house” demons. They’ll have to stay.