blockage no. 8
a bumblebee, Kamikaze pilot
in disguise, balancing ancillary,
damp sidewalk-situated, papier
mache pinions flashing faintly.
six coarse-haired legs flicker for the
troubleshoot-detection of external
demise; antennae circuits flip on,
flip off, blow fuses red and bright.
I don't fit in here
all of the don’t cares
become the dos
in the prime of uncut
nine-inch youth and the
faces are lamentable
the same, no game,
held still without
contempt -
one becomes
as flame-set maiden,
expectant matron,
rotting crone - switching
off in a Billy Idol selfish
omni-trance waltzing
Matilda with a
seventy-two hour
passing span one
by in azure pastures’
midst, double-sided
stick-taped on horse
shoes, tapping painful
on red panes,
won’t you help me,
you are who we once
to be, help, I took the
wayward gravel help,
I thought it was to my
home help, this thing
I signed up for lacks
preconceived
instructions
what am
I to color by the number
in between finite
undefined lines paint
my way into the
feathered spine -
insomnia
silence, black, neither
nigh so entire so long’s
one’s bedroom window
drapery - sentry -
permits entry to the pale
orange street lamps, our
midnight constellations,
alight and abuzz, the
bass line hum of tires
glancing highway single-
file; how long does one
lie here, arms crossed in
the letter X, back flat as
in a silk-lined pine box,
how many minutes will
the cycling aerial, all
capitals, all moving, cast
onto closed orange
Viewfinder lids, empty
seats before IT’S GOING
TO BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S
GOING TO BE ALL
RIGHT, IT’S GOING TO
BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S
scrolling in nonstop purple
Helvetica circles before
the body topples, spine
lurching in a crash land
down upon an X-spot
marking helicopter landing
pad, the hundred foot
descent into golden,
deep, equilibrium, sleep?
a bumblebee, Kamikaze pilot
in disguise, balancing ancillary,
damp sidewalk-situated, papier
mache pinions flashing faintly.
six coarse-haired legs flicker for the
troubleshoot-detection of external
demise; antennae circuits flip on,
flip off, blow fuses red and bright.
I don't fit in here
all of the don’t cares
become the dos
in the prime of uncut
nine-inch youth and the
faces are lamentable
the same, no game,
held still without
contempt -
one becomes
as flame-set maiden,
expectant matron,
rotting crone - switching
off in a Billy Idol selfish
omni-trance waltzing
Matilda with a
seventy-two hour
passing span one
by in azure pastures’
midst, double-sided
stick-taped on horse
shoes, tapping painful
on red panes,
won’t you help me,
you are who we once
to be, help, I took the
wayward gravel help,
I thought it was to my
home help, this thing
I signed up for lacks
preconceived
instructions
what am
I to color by the number
in between finite
undefined lines paint
my way into the
feathered spine -
insomnia
silence, black, neither
nigh so entire so long’s
one’s bedroom window
drapery - sentry -
permits entry to the pale
orange street lamps, our
midnight constellations,
alight and abuzz, the
bass line hum of tires
glancing highway single-
file; how long does one
lie here, arms crossed in
the letter X, back flat as
in a silk-lined pine box,
how many minutes will
the cycling aerial, all
capitals, all moving, cast
onto closed orange
Viewfinder lids, empty
seats before IT’S GOING
TO BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S
GOING TO BE ALL
RIGHT, IT’S GOING TO
BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S
scrolling in nonstop purple
Helvetica circles before
the body topples, spine
lurching in a crash land
down upon an X-spot
marking helicopter landing
pad, the hundred foot
descent into golden,
deep, equilibrium, sleep?
