Without commercials, gimmicks, or words:
On this stretch through the
Post-Friday
Traffic
like an escape pod from some foreign
mother-ship that I once knew
after some previous unnamed carnival
after some previous unnamed reason
we cut, and dodge through with the melody
and run the high-hat in the fifth gear
where a little screen tells us
that the power is draining from the battery to the engine,
from the engine to the battery
and back again
from my terse excitement
to the unexpected red-light chorus
across the bassline it creeps
like your beating heart and my skittering eyes,
and the fear that this could go horribly wrong
and the excitement that it might not,
filled with the absurd hope I will get to see all that cartoon shit that I envy so much
will I see a fish-eyed man with varicose veins that run out from his head whenever;
he looks to his left
..or his right
Wondering, to what entity does this hall way of steel and iron and concrete
the taste of the past and the future coalescing into one ever-present now
and i asked the trees: “what god?”
and they said nothing because
their leaves
had all been
decapitated.
But their roots ran deeper than the navigation-system
As they continued to Fold the concrete into toddler-origami
As the scale of the word washed the downtown skyline
As a sandcastle
consumed in the word:
consumed in the word:
Lisopain
