Now, who forgot to document their sources? Plagiarism gets awarded while inventors can’t enter the doors of the patent office. Permanent paralysis. From thought to nervous wordsmith to wordless word list to find which would fit. But who’s more fit to judge the glitch? Lunge this hazardous gift to spit madness and abolishing national anthems. Blow out the patriotic lantern—eternal flame turn phantom. Smoke roaming the halls of its own burning castle, ghost-hunting for he who planned the scandal and secretly lit a trick candle. You disinform despite the evidence protruding—I’ll sit watching the Atkins epidemic unfold on a cell phone movie. If we had film way back, born-again [c]hristians wouldn’t have to fantasize about [g]od raping Mary. My ears are question marks beeping at the ends of messages no one leaves. My three-syllable limbs juggling raindrops with mannequin hands overlooking golf courses with staked flags like immigrants claiming land. Stitching two halves of the serpent’s tongue into one lump sum up the eyes in one-third. I’m sick of writing—I roll the dice and think I possess poetic license to siphon insight from my own enticing third iris. Here, the crisis arises: My heart is spineless. I sat down naked in a field so long a sunflower grew up my ass, then I had a brush with death while combing the desert. Outdistancing the sensors of backyard motion detectors—hopped in a line with the rest of the protestors who detest torture through altruistic gestures…

Now, who forgot to dismantle the warheads? “Control panel to fortress, this is Catacomb Contortionist.” As far as an enormous breech of defenses this is the worst yet. The silos erupt like volcanoes—our corrupt president twirling his halo ordered “All systems go…” Bombers dropped their payloads—release the ball, Simon says so. Primitive synapses like telephone poles transmitting Morse-coded messages—you could’ve warned us in time for that coming wreckage, but instead lamped in the deceptive lack of checks and balances. Mold old habits like plastic mannequins, dancing leper-limbless around factories where the media machine’s already sewing craters like fabrics to our eye sockets. Stain the spotless, psychologically monstrous concoctions of obnoxious consciousness. Now watch this as these permanently pressed lids unfolds like silk sheets spread across your king-size bed—new linen devised to tuck you in tight where in the dark it’s quite obvious we might as well be eyeless, so pull the covers over us and keep it real simple with magic marker handy while I keep blowing this whistle. The burning Bush keeps firing missiles, turning the youth hostile. Pull out your driver, surrounded by no survivors—your last golf course is the ozone hole-in-one so, now, who forgot to keep the yarn ball of information spun?