Saturday, September 26, 2015

obviously broken mess is a little slippery

Obviously, the broken mess is a little slippery.
The stairs are peeling away in shame, it's not
the fault of any one step.

But calculated gaits, human self-fuckery.
This was something planned even before the first ape.
When there was only monkeys.

Never to falter, I glide as a face whose job it is to bump along
with a nose snobbing so utterly, nobody can unthink a coney island hot dog

Just skidding, you can, of course forget anything you'd like to.
I, with agency, declare.
Like some kind of fabreze or air freshener.


Like some kind of mankind or homosapien.
Like an eradicated or unknown species.
Like the white tunnel or carefully planning tomorrow.
Like the little bit of the stairs, a piece of cement,
that my head accidentally knocked off from those difficult


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