I brought with me a skill I call magic tampering
so innate, it is where my personality’s based. And so I locked myself in rooms,
waited ’til the anger thaws.
I do not want to be waiting for years in this here orchestra,
with their antibiotic eyes and phrenoplegic ears, and their
synthesized vocabularies, estimable lats
I still don’t know what synergy means and I hear a ton of word fascists use it on the daily.
It’s fun. Real funny, at the sides of the peepholes where people pretend like its their day job
A five to seven overwork, and I am new to this collapsing asceticism
Zoroastrianism, a twentieth century Brook Farm where people are eager to participate
And leave with teeth crooker than before.
Harmony? I think that’s what it’s called.
I doubt that’s what we aimed for.
I couldn’t tell from their expressives.
So well-produced are them panic attacks.
But do you mind not accessorizing yourself with fake illness
and dispersions of imaginary OCD?
Your quirks are exactly those: quirks.
Don’t make them acute.
You made it out, and away you go
from falling leaves like glass, shards, and skin so tough, you don’t
notice. Make way for a new wave of artificial smiles.
A dancer teased into the darkness of her own undoing. You blocked
the sun away from the orchard. You’re dexterous, salvo, quite the reckoning
of panhandlers for terse explanations. You seem to have not
made a mind of yet.
“Why am I here again?”
“Society made me.”
Eek! Society? Is that your best excuse?
You cannot feed art to goats and you damn well know it’s the truth.
I am just as angry to be here as the sun underwater.
You can’t just scream, “Ad Hominem!” to someone
who’s clearly deaf to logic
Or cozy up with the moon as your cover.
You are not comfortable in that open.
You are not a natural in here states.
He who is the fisione to Aries wins the war by default,
but you got an arsenal of insurrects,
spires hidden beneath your hair
Thick, like armor
Bring by boring brick, singing, swinging until you
lay it out and build your own Babel from groupie gush
and dance till your lungs are out, and pouring from their mouths
I made it out of universities, orphanage, three-walled condos
and I’m not dying on this here cubicle that may as well be my grave,
or so they tried.
I made it out of the earth where they house the devils.
I am now a resident of the skies.