My hands have outgrown

their youthfulness.

And I seem to be getting a kind of

meager lisp in my caricature.

If I wanted, I could swim back.

But I never saved anything for that chance[1]

To believe in oneself is the craziest thing you

can do in a nation of typewriters.

All clogged with burning hair and symbolism.

Collectively, the Mad outweigh the crude

and ignorantly blissful

Typists but

There was never any overarching

structure to hold them all still

long enough except neon laced and hallucinatory

deprived of themselves,

un-native, other’s property and subject to

surcharges, late fees, documentation law.

Didn’t include the slow, mismanaged

awareness of the body,

rendering any revolution impossible

or at least theatrical when finally executed.

It was just like the last cries

of the other places

we had burnt down.

It smoldered with style,

but had very little form.

It was a poem in Herodotus’ sandstorm soup,

So not much of anything, like Lost. [2]

Toes and fingers went numb last week.

Mismanagement of internal resources?

Abuse of the souls imaginary friend, heart?

Pity that organs weren’t just dreams

we could Wake the Fate’s Up! (Ya Basta!)[3] from.

Or play until they sing a song of hope

without the demon of Christ.

Or made sense enough times to over

shadow the once or twice or millions

of times, they lost their fear

-of their own faces.

Faced the whirlpool and

The Cyclops in the places necessary.

You would not want this life.

Because you are porcelain and weak.

It would not be good for you. Fuck Off.

Leave the minister to his bidniss-

the making of new sunglasses

to heal the blind and sane.[4]

                                                       – Notes –

[1] Gattaca Quote, see Michael Nyman entry.

[2] See “The Slow Death of Modern Art as seen on Cable”

[3] See “On My Love of the Zapatista”

[4] See, “Chewing Bublegum and Kicking Ass for Dummies(and those without Gum): A look at the blind in film and lit.”