Ship of State

in barbecue smoke
making chin music–

madras warrior,
what do you think?

do you find yourself
elsewhere?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Last night in my astro recliner,
a lawyer highliting certain ossia
pons asinorum
portions of writ
to enlarge for a client
I saw the pieces were
altogether organic, ineluctable,
allegro interrelated, it made
no sense to choose. The selections
were arbitrary.

Awake, my shins
itched like fire. "Flip the
lap robe, imagine
one side is cotton."

I highlited "diabetes," "wool,"
"psychosomatic," clicked into
a sitting position, rose and strode
to the vial of starry BALM.

The shins are coolly relenting now,
but the ribs are stirring, murmuring REVOLT.

I hand my client several versions,
one contract highlited completely,
altogether senseless: altiplano, bionic
blockbuster, anode mud,
blind alley–another
printout tiny, illegible–
"See?"

He laughs, and in the gloss,
the glassy partition,
the crucible
offering
night like isinglas I see
my unborn twin, snake lock tresses,
holding her compact, applying
Cubicle Colour lip gloss–

to whose–to her–
my lips?–the booster
soundless, advancing the plan
to warp speed, open
dimension–

Who can predict,
think fast enough to
highlite "vatic,"
"reproduction,"
"twentyfour seven,"
"code blue"?

– – – – – – – – – – – –

alive, distanced
by jive,

surely, anywhere
in the world–

Do you cling to amnesia,
minor dissonance?

turning your salsa
to asp bite?

the EXIT sign
buzzing?

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