Wednesday, November 25, 2009

The Irish Survives Itself (The Sleep of the Just II)

Now that our store teeth are in high def we feel rightfully
invincible. Backmasking your vanity childhood we got lost
in that day you wasted playing chicken on the wrong side

of the tracks. Soon, though, your heroin arm underbed
willies were collated. To be transported in separate safety
cranks across a blind scrim prairie to deep complexes

under non-existent mountains. Comic anti-semitic resorts

where we have coffee and grin swearing. Our daily streaks
come off hourly. That prairie is half an Earth’s worth gaining.
The steps you’d extemporized were swept for any secret

and/or recyclable bugs. Even this early we knew you
to be a potential preemptive idol. Years were spent
underground eating off your carbon and well buttering

a crackpot aggregation of pox blankets,

bread buckets to martyr your doll collection to the Daddy
Max. Wild Hill, ring a bell? Hillock? Do you remember
being made to sit lungless through fifteen straight years

in end to end screenings of Dances With the Hoops?
A free and equitable association of cut cards played just
above the Frontiersman trained on your empathically minute

carbine and damp wadding? There is no one to confirm
in your favorite shoes. No reason we should wonder who
you might say you think that is in the borrowed radium

suits. No one sees creamed corn anywhere, moron!

Striking the familiar death mask poses of the friendly
pathogen society. (A course you can fail to take from home)
Or of the vanquished without poison or television privileges.

Who can you trust to translate an unsafe lunch from the Pig
Mandarin back into cellular code we are incapable of
being freaked out by in any smoking veil of an accuracy?

Those sentries are inhalating again. More procedural naked
Twister to the tune of a nascent acne, glass canisters chock-
a-block in hospital colored chicken. Scratch-n-seize packets

of the gizmo juice. It’s almost too big! read her menu of elevator
disasters. Or an exquisitely freeze-framed chronicle of same
sex drift as ancient undocumented heartbreak. That cheese

isn’t even real Amerikan Krab. So Ambassador Lo-Fat fainted
and was saved by his Ray-Ban attitude. The gag is in the serum.
He conducts your up arrow to last season’s child face

down in her Kefauver apple pie. The fulcrum of time outs.
Time to get pleasantly irrelevant. Individually wrapped
in a time-share seminar on pivotal razor replacements.

And you go to the surgery in your hungry pj’s.

A collapsing knee has your name in diamonelles on it.
But the temporary sky concealed a Galuth choking fast
lanes in destructo tumors. Amiable as special equipment fuck

ups complete with missing warranty, serio-cum stained glassine.
The mob invokes the musical cosmos rule, natch. Ballroom
executions by Jerry Lewis-Stalin and a tubercular baby

giraffe ensue. They make a dark woman with an animal breast
feeding contain the cleansing fire. A collar symbol survivor?
No more so than a kingdom eulogized in the random

or a generation of vanishing plates. The recommended chemical
peel that erases this interminable waiting is just outside
the waiting room door watching Oprah with the sound off.

There is no breath in the system.

Dear Diary: No one killed for the art of justice
in days. But there is a school from the dark windows
of which you are watched waiting for a bus each morning.

Nature she said is a dance of the watcher and the burning bus
its passenger freezing at the stop. Then she came hard and left
without opening her eyes. The late president of continuity.

Famous first words she said, like muy bueno or cig me.

Just as the throats of the universe carpool and sing that train song.
We all join in. I see your boy gave himself a posthumous Oscar
for his last known orgasm. All speech exceeds the time limit.

A musician will be born if you don’t do something quick.

These are the dangers you embrace when you become
a thanker of ideas. By the very bakelite deities who conferred
the honor acting together was produced a never-before-seen

episode of Baretta. Was that my louder than eye torture
voice? he fretted. Was the noise that was heard felt
to be of a suitable harshness to distract the dying

light from settling in all cozy among the non-anti-smokers?
None of his failings had practiced enough. Yet her glibness
had very little to do with her tongue technique. She had

already captured his attention when she burned
his debit card in protest of the global war of nutrition
she thought he was thinking of starting.

A swell gathering at the gates.

The children at least had had some help from the fact
that they wielded butterfly knives. The children
had not considered the fact a fact. If you butter a piece

of bread before it’s been baked you’re traveling in a cat
carrier of some other party’s decoration. If you think
about butter it is vanquished and we need more west.

The process reinvents the process server.
The vest repopularizes vastness in a cotton.
The west wins itself over.

And the weeds that may, will.