Every injustice itemized and, with the skyline already colonized, there’s nowhere left but up to go—or so seem the images satellites spy, but this myriad is too myopic. Reel news flash flooded with changing topics. Don’t expect pilots to eject from their tape deck cockpits. All the missiles in the sky shot like stars, only seen by some. Secret sequence launched our residual outcome: Surveillance, [g]od’s got us bugged—we need to fumigate the phones and, if soap’s so clean, the fuck’s up with scum? I’m agoraphobic and homeless, but soon to form an alliance with the avalanche. Distract my scars from remembering the potholes they’ve patched with faces like flocks of pixels or scraps of syllables. Re-stitching the alphabet, strapped to the past tense’s front seat—no passenger present, waiting for [g]od to suicide me…
Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Choke the windows and watch dawn roll new credits. Reverse palindrome, over the phone response had to give back words…
So I blow my brains out, put on a hat so no one will notice the big picture winks at me when I turn away to start fires and yell rape. When no one comes, recognize police tape doesn’t separate the symbiosis between the crime scene and where I’m standing. And you can dust my pen for prints, convict my sins, but faith in [g]od? I don’t even believe in atheists. Just waking up feels like a field trip to the hospital. Life begat fossil. Man-made disasters: Colossal. A barbed-wire obstacle means scratch your own surface to overcome the impossible. Tonight, even the crescent moon looks like a broken collar bone…
Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Choke the windows and watch dawn roll new credits. Reverse palindrome, over the phone response had to give back words…
Useless as a revolving doorknob I turn to more fulfilling endeavors, like balancing a measuring cup brimming with formaldehyde on my nose—or even myself over an erection, limbs like helicopter blades spinning under a ceiling fan. Or, unrolling a rattlesnake along the length of a casino floor, its ice-cube eyes dissolving under my tongue but, seeing as it’s claustrophobic enough without slithering into the fireplace, I pilot a cryogenic carpet: Arms and legs thawing out in all directions like da Vinci sketching a crucified scarecrow—a voodoo doll pin-cushioned to the illusion of animation’s cross inverted…
Krakatoa crash-test dummy: Better hope that chute opens when the prayer you sent up falls face-first, lost in the desert with only a cactus to converse with—one touch could quench your thirst—pricked, you think the cut healed but, still, it hurts…
