Don't get even, get down
In aerial overlay to Turneresque,
Physicalities of "inertia" or "insertion" (I forget which)
All you have to do is jiggle & it slips away
Like Johnny Cash on acid
It's no worse than a blind date
Singing "Mojo for Marjorie," or
"Stuck Inside of Jersey"
With coolants, on the spread eagle
But the world's gone skimpy
In a downward
Of nightly, exterior hard drives
& The other, longish bore
Excitedly fell through.
It was a gimme, in retrospect
Done deal (dumbfounded tiny screams)
The plumb line is inexact,
Therefore hard to get.
Strenuous inaction is its own
Reward, or not. I forgot
Not to be picky about such
Yes, we're wired, but it's snapped;
Like cracks in a hairline surface or circuses
Could whip up a headline delimiter
Petering out like frightened
In their demonic nightshirts.
Still, the late ones are all best
In their iconic
Pick-me-up. Slathering, inexact nodal punting
Like replicant headhunters
In search of glum
Babes, the crazy ones who date garage door salesmen
You couldn't comment on that, except that the sluice does follow
The money, & everything's glam-o-rific.
Want a kiwi? I'll wait
Amid cubicles, in the stacks & bathhouses
Of Rotterdam (aptly named).
Here the altitude's palpable
As a wraith, but I've seen
It before, trying not to
Remember who coined
The term "Official
Verse Culture"- but poetry's the culture
Of the impermissible. Unofficiated
In your nightmare wallhangings.
Overheard at reading: "What do you
Theory." "Oh, I love chaos."
It lingered, in a forlorn
Where the drydocks singed.
The detective grew testy at a piecemeal
Clampdown. No joke: site plans of interactive pealing
Bum the cognoscenti.
It was wicked fun:
A continuity stuffed with birds
Not counted on by colleagues.
The redundant stockholders mucked up the wallhangings.
I slept or grew testy as conventioneers.
But the end of history's stuffed into suitcases
In total composure, for
You send me
Up the street, for breadcrumbs & vodka
Or just vodka, but daylight hurts
My eyes, & I can't throttle
The rest of the world blows up
Well maybe, but we have the sweltering
To bulge, then slip
Into a mild heat
Or "predicaments." What still dissolves
Will burn incessantly
Then wrestle with this disclaimer
Called escapism- after a few
Shallow years transfixed:
Like one of those classics that makes me
Okay, what have we learned
So far? That you can go there, here
Or there, I forget which.
Foreseeing is another
End-result- like the eager
Note on my door that wouldn't
Let you slip away.