you may need to die to get there.or suffer a head injury.an alternate reality is not better. isolation. far more alone in the default, assigned version.It’s not escapism or idealism. it’s codified. watch.
neoclassical colonnades
setting foot on
Dodge Saturn tire tracks swept aside
by Strauss snorting Dylithium crystals
in the search for spock
or the voyage home
to see Cesare Borgia setting the phasers to stun--
---IS
THat really Pavarotti's hand
in Dolly Parton's blouse---
the winds of change---
blowing---
castrati Uranus hands the reins over to Cronos
with steady scissors-
HOLD STILL
A gargantuan MRS. pac man
Knowing why the caged bird sings
but not the blues
Robert Johnson swishes Hydrogen Peroxide
to assuage Maya Angelou
crouches hesitantly
with denture fixative on his knees
Kissing the ground
she walks on and on
shaking hips like a belly dancer the
pope grovels
before skimming
the yellow pages to hire out catered
ambrosia for hedonistic benedictions
the abbey of thelema
smelling like teen spirit
deodorized decay
loves the scourge of flies that
fuse themselves to the shotgun-pelleted wall
wondering
who will come next
Salome
Jackie O
narcissistic Donatello's David's
androgynous mouth-fucked finality
though
Caravaggio isn't Goliath
but nonetheless
I'm missing his head
his marbles his pager#
his bowler hatted appraisals of
premodernist authenticity
his blue light special price tags of parataxis
his decals of bumpersticker tribulation
take up the old rugged cross
and cut Gorbechev off in
rush hours of Ecclesiastical traffic
hurrying desperately to recover the relationship
and cancel the checks and love notes
scribbled impetuously at the height of the Iran contra affair
I LOVE YOU FIDEL CASTRO
I love wading through
the flora and fauna with you
fumbling with the keys to the Paracelsus flophouse
fawning over Mussorgsky's tumbling Night down
the Hairpiece of Bald Mountain
with rye ergot and Dick Cheney
growing out of our soiled buried bodies
reaping the harvest of Eleusinian mysteries and
going backward
knowing full well what we'll
do when we get there
doing what thou wilt with the lush overgrowth
pruning the luscious deadness of passionate put-ons
pretending to not see spiritless
matter bouncing along the tarmac
at two hundred miles per hour
NOOOOOO ! ! !!! !!!!!!!!! !!!
not Buddy Holly
Richie Valens
the Big Bopper
and two thousand hits of Ecstasy
Stretching the sinews of truth
of steroid wrestling superstar
Presidential hopefulness fizzling
in calorie-counted polls
calculating the popularity of a one-time try-it-out
once-in-a-lifetime
BE=bopped biological disaster
REsurrection after resurrection
of Marilyn Monroe
promised but never received
foaming out of the corner of RFK's mouth
reputations saved and clipped and glued
selectively
THAT'S NOT THE SAME LASSIE
and you can't
tell me otherwise
and that's DICk VAN DYKE and not
CHarlie cHaplin or
Robert Downey Jr being pulled
from the pitfalls and pratfalls
of vulgar Aristophanes
ED WOOD
and John Waters
and just where the fuck do you think you are
in General Hospital requesting
a X-ray chest examination
of Sigourney Weaver
the thing that lives in her
carbon dated
a flower
the goddamned Rosicrucians again
Arriving at the scene
just in time to overdose
WRONG WAY to the
WRONG ERA
the meter's still running
wait here
Burroughs is busy shooting up in the bathroom…
