This charade is pointless as the cone of a blue lamp shade. Increasing the fan base with the flip of a light switch’s flickering handshake. Commence to outer dimension: Still not hot enough to mention, I shove pins into thorax cushions of my butterfly collection. Satellite-dish contact lenses, mesmerize forensics. Entry or exit, all your stations detect are wedding receptions—no ceremony. For those who use prayer to prey on innocent witness idiocy, off on the distance even railroad tracks desert me. Synapses fire off, I aspire to rewire the entire circuitry. Since my heart’s a compact disc I skip excuses, but can’t manage to master these mixes the rest of my body produces—it’s useless but I aim to claim this unlimited style’s legitimate, I even go so far as to copyright my birth certificate. With Dali’s moustache for handlebars my motorized bicycle dashes through this wasteland desert of ashes. Dehydrating the massive masses, I choke tattoos into breathless skin captions leaving no image or wit to clash with…
Maybe the word should be omitted... Maybe the sentence is never finished… The dotted line signified existence that paused at continuance… Ellipsis... Ellipsis... Ellipsis…
I dunk my straw into the ocean, slurping suck propulsion through a capped hatch that shouldn’t be opened. In slow motion, these parenthetic walls close in on concave shell with convex cell. Soaking wet, the atmosphere sloping. Through seashell headphones I listen to the storm, the ghosts of oceans we hear and want to believe in. I must be dreaming to punch holes in the paper aircraft carrier decks in attempt to abort the mission of all sinking semen. What’s your blood type, writer? Mine is fused with Jupiter’s rings branded up and down my arms with car lighters. I sit staring at these keys like a piano’s crossword puzzle, unlock the driver’s side door of my psyche leaving passengers befuddled. Every time I hit the space bar, I pass an empty seat in a movie theater designed for one, each letter a popping kernel. This big, dark room’s a shark’s mouth with rows of teeth I impale myself on. I’m seeing leopard spots that polka dot the usher’s laughter but I’ve spilled my guts for them to examine with flashlights and clean up after…
The signal’s getting fuzzy. Maybe the dial’s a little rusty, maybe the DJ hasn’t slept and he’s getting clumsy. He’s got the wrong songs pumping. It’s something about which I’ve been wondering. I know it’s not his choice—he doesn’t decide what styles to covet, or to make you love it by rotating it 360 every hour on the hour during every car ride to work and from it. And when the hours stack like pre-applied bathroom tiles, I only ask you give me a minute to finish writing this freestyle. With rhymes thick like aerial views of forest canopies, lungs trunk and branch out from the invisible floor’s atrophy while unraveling the fabrics of disassembled dissected mannequins whose severed arms and hands I grasp clapping in unison but being aggressive isn’t so impressive, so the shadows of these power lines cross out your collective message. I died in a past life sentence, my future’s already been rented. Fortune tellers read my palm prints pressed into the sediment and, if you were able to read these words, if would at least surpass my speech impediment…
Maybe the word should be omitted... Maybe the sentence is never finished… The dotted line signified existence that paused at continuance… Ellipsis... Ellipsis... Ellipsis…
