I don’t know that I am anything
but a Frankenstein robot, poet model,
a heart made of sound bytes
and those parts of speech
from my better friends and loves.
I don’t know that I’m not doomed
to be like
“the lo-o-o-oonie up in Togus”
I’m afraid not of patterns in the
program or the walls, but the
Dead Literary floor that’s turned
your average neighborhood underground
into a snotty man’s hyper-ceiling.
I think it’s a little demeaning to
expect your audience to know what
you’ve been feeling when it’s
layered so heavy beneath
your “intensity” which I think
we can easily ascertain as just
some assumption of superior rank
in a non-existent illuminati
of time immemorial. You think you
have the prose of an aural aurora borealis?
Maybe so, but what’s its function aside
from your peers and a few couture critics?
I link my day to a page and afterwards,
scour with most basic set of senses,
my surroundings Are the next sentence,
line, next moment, next kiss, write, next,
dream, write wake next, sip cackle groan vent, next,
and it just goes on like this.
If you like dj Bl3nd maybe
you’ll like my schizoid-script.
I beat the beat beaten until
Broke, and beaten, got out-spoken
and beat the silence back that beat him!
Let us beat the wool
with universal words
like Ya Basta!
And while the inner circle
of finely crafted naval gazing
fills in the required allotment
to be considered a kind of
help the others row the
Drunken Boat ashore.
“I get out of bed like Rimbaud,”
(Anything else you pay more)
The new words will be spoken
and will resound with a bored thud,
A Shock-Shock-Shock you
when you see they’re just
the same primary colors’.