My hands have outgrown
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
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
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. 
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!) 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.
– Notes –