Easy Humans
After falling
from the father,
astro weather
and inner verse,
from the not-so safe
head of heaven,
where I was
micro consciousness,
where solar fungi
ate my surface of dyes,
I, the individual idea
in divided duality,
I, the chemical fire made flesh,
flesh made
aging leash,
like a slippery electric
Creation,
on a mountain
in a mind, modified,
and charged with meaning,
wavelengths
and waving leaves
sliding down
a tree of spine
like a surfer in wet oxygen,
both testaments, hairy
as heresy, a sack of spices,
my hung cabal of bacteria,
of reproductive
sinus
infections,
avoiding the lunar
fishing rod,
the cell life centuries I trolled in father
before shilling in mother,
swollen
to a globe,
my first breakfast,
seed and egg,
Yo, Yolk say “Yo” to the folks,
say “Our kind ain’t kin,
ish ain’t friends,”
collective memory
partially
burned
during the routine birth
of a creamy
and dream-like war,
conflict remix,
no recollection
of the GPS in blood,
a swab
of sacrifice,
rpm booster,
audiophile spray day,
the black sneeze
that kissed
my
organic
relocation.
Ring Lord Losers
They want the poet not the finger pointer,
the photographer
not the provocateur,
the bandleader not the book thief.
He who dances during lectures,
a virtual podium on a dead turntable.
Prosody be the odyssey, dissed prose an Oz.
Sentences not lines, linearity not lyricism, paragraphs not stanzas.
I blame the whole spiral fingerprint
not just facetime, not just the footnotes of upset classics.
News is the new nuance.
Every crisis directed by a leaky operative
contains a pocket monster
and a cohort of therapists, lowly favored.
Peep the Guevara at the end of La Malinche.
Toolbox, brew me a stew of terms and conditions.
I’m engaged to the center of the circle.
Wrongdoing is not my dizzy.
Please restring the guitar in my gut.
It feels like a peace of mind torn between impulse buyers.
Contemporary craft suffers
from too much nip and tuck,
gamers glued to divorce court.
They want the professor not the artist,
the author not the arsonist,
a man child not an adult male, another mask not an aging face.
The soft invasion of streaming,
strategically wireless as a pay point of units.
Gone are the notebooks of tension.
The revolutions have been replaced with relationships,
the Netflix-i-fication of the natural world,
seasons of hate-listening episodes,
sticky blood refusing to flow.
We the people of tik tok wade in wetiko.
A green campus like a splattered canvas,
the Cry-a-thon chatter of soundtrack puppetry.
A smart ban on cell phonetics, on voice not violence.
