I never cared to get too technical
although a curvaceous glossary
can exude a gluey magnetism;
toes do get wet and fingers are made sticky.
So my train of thought – surprise, surprise
– has encountered another derailment.
Again I dream I reside in a cube.
All I want to do is make strange shapes
but this requires rambling in odd worlds
which cannot happen without immersion.
The pilot caged in lunacy
nervously nibbles a doughnut
and asks where is the stewardess
though not really wanting to know
if the rumor that nags is true,
swearing that when the pills wear off
apologies for turbulence
shall be written when home
and maybe the ill will pardon
the snow that powdered the panel.
The habit is happy to dream
of when the world was filterless.
Dear birds, your presence has been
a colorful, harmonious pleasure.
Sorry some of your kin
became cat toys. If it helps,
we both envy your freedom.
We cannot flutter towards the heavens
or make whoopee
a hundred times per day.
I’ll be bundled chopping wood
while you bask in Mexico.
A correction is in order
regarding that fiction memo
true that about the big box of bibles
and the equally big box of bugles,
and that this crisis drives all of us nuts,
which is the invaders’ ultimate goal,
and credit must go where credit is due;
they keeping us pinned in inertia
rightly boast of a lengthy legacy
of teaching techniques to make people nuts.
Anyway the armory guardian
reports finding a big box of brass tacks.
it has come to the point that fantasy
solutions cannot advance victory
and as is brutally clear, munitions
have dwindled to a few firecrackers;
oh yes there is that big box of bugles
but since the bugle instructor has quit
a lot of good those bugles will give us;
no better than a big box of bibles.
Bluntly: our final hope is in fiction.
Believe it or not I do not want
to write about you as though I am
obliged to worship you
and set all my toys aside
and burn all my trivial dreams
for the sake of fixing ear and eye on
each word that blasts from your holy mouth.
Yet what did I just do but write about you?
Someday I shall defeat this nightmare.
It sounds insane to think
a silly thing as in a book
or a paperweight may
exchange telegram zingers
after the household humans
emulating farmers, yawn
and crawl into geometry
unconscious they too are stars.
Of course thinking so is
on the low end sorta funny
which is the point of all this:
I hear kids call it free-writing.