Interim

 

The notion that we should be understated is vastly inappropriate.  The course we are grounding on is trembling like a geyser, ready to flow unabated, masturbating fried brains, veiny in the pan, the webbed hand, bat wing, nature’s unwashed blemishes, crevices in Earth’s fracking crust, the crutch of rhyme and rhythm catching up with me again, it’s all so simple, what I lack is any hard sense of finance.  It depends on your definition of productivity.  The sudden reaction of nervous ends, spliced words fending off lyrical demons, frilly-based thought predictions and cataclysmic endings in half-sarcastic fiery death—on one level I stand by it, and on another I contradict myself, the wooden shelf irreverent on the wall, the vagrant crack-whore of Mugatu’s Derelicte campaign.  We took nitrous oxide in a hot-pink balloon and danced around my bedroom naked with the windows flown open, laughing guttural huck-sin, full throated bare chest of May, purple blossoms rising steadily, milking sugared whey in a bowl of blue recycled sunglasses—can I sneeze in your mouth?  We laugh gaily and consider lamely that maybe they can hear us joking about carpal tunnel and downstairs deejays bumping house for hand-washing hipsters, Cadillac driving wishers, catcall and whistle at the traffic on the street, the people that we meet and ask us for a dime, a stupid reference to nostalgia for a time we never knew, Red Scare dawning on the horizon, a sailor’s joy in morning glory springtime return to shore, the White Cliffs of Dover I’ve never seen, but they come to mind.  The awful sheen of skylight window death thrills, monster truck rallies in the smoke kettle alley-way, homeless people fight each other to become a 4G hotspot and wear an orange collar, the color of construction vests, reflective strips protecting thoughts from nobody, the stoned cellar awareness of continuity within the mainframe, a circular rendition of time, lazy black-eyed-susans waving at me from behind, with eyes in the back of my head I can see just fine.  Take out the word “just,” it always justifies—no fucking shit.  The needle prick insulin shot in the buttocks everyday, he’s convinced he doesn’t need it but then he started getting red and sweating heavy, after four days of mass amounts of illegal spiritual substances, tundra fenced in parameters of lollygagging, talking for the sake of walking and hugging a tree because you will say it’s cliché.  I don’t know what kind of tree it was, it was tall and round with bark on it and it needed a hug so I gave it one, where is the fun in cutting one down or carving its skin to something so pointless as a name?  When I ask you, “what time is it?” by the time you reply, time has already passed and we’ve missed our last chance to get a reaction out of our neighbors, this waiting game is endless and sporadic if you catch my drift, I rely on pre-used phrases as a riff, a different pace and tone to distract from what is really going on in the poem.  Why can’t you be forthcoming?