If I could read minds for a day
I’d read them in print
Dead tree edition
Over toast and orange juice
Letting the top corners flop like Beagle ears
The bottom edge jostling table crumbs into my lap
Thumbing the serrated sides
Ink dying my skin cells graphite.
Scrape a few onto a slide
For microscopic viewing
Bear the lens down
And read the thinks
Your mind has dyed.
Hellraiser Pin Head
Off a cliff
Onto the head of a pin, like an angel
Is my favorite place to drive
Just so long as the other angels don’t jostle me
When I arrive.
They can be so territorial
And I’ve got shit on my tunic
From shoveling it all day in the stables.
So if they don’t jostle and they don’t mind the smell of a working angel
I’m cool with the head of a pin.
Can I dance in my car?
If she calls me on the phone
Do I answer, ”
I am a digital approximation”
“Press 1 for English”
If nexward she implies axforwardslash cramward,
Crawl out do we dare?
Allowing for 4G interference gulleting
Down telecom drawers
Well, bass synths tech know sys
Tem and dese.
Call out your sexcams
For all eternity.
I’ll-withered callow stems glory funk blug fjord gunk.
Autocorrect blasphemy calls to me. I’ll I’ll I’ll.
See how the cat doth hump moonweary gallumphing for e’er and ere I saw elbow.
Yeah, forward slash me to ribbons, yeah yeah. Whoa.
Glory gunk if you please continue fallow in your tread, stead, what head.
Give God gore.
Aggravation. Alleviation. Teeter down, totter up. No balance. Dynamic equilibrium. Sight block. Limits of experience. Locked in a human.
Bite brick wall, floss with barbed wire, pain of big rock sharing drowns in my blood.
All my atoms weave their way into other DNA in the year 3014. My protestations whisper in the wind: “Shuuuuut uuuuuuup, youuuuuu idioooooooooots.” Whistling through Old West gas station doors, termite-textured.
Please chuck stones on the ground until it splits and you all go mouth-up.
Continue the bound-and-gagged existence and keep hacking at it like John Henry until the mountain collapses.
2012 passed with a grunt.
2013 let out an SBD.
2014 and 2046 high-fived each other with rubber chickens.
Let go of my leg, vile devil. Irreligious of your irregardless.
Sometimes I like walking across the bottom of the fishbowl looking good and looking at you in your submarines as you blow Dumbo bubbles blissfully shredding gunt.
Why? Because all of human activity is conditioning and instinct, with a few horseflies of genuine inspiration getting swatted.
Meet my Dada.