I walk the tightrope shadow of myself.
.
Chomsky says it best, we're almost through.
The monsters are already feeding the Roman fire with Beatles records
and telling the teens to go buy more to keep economic growth alive.
Member that one goes, though she feels as if she's in a play --
she is anyway? We gave it all away to Cain
when he returned to town we painted it red
and he and his posse have gone from town to town since:
the tiny man bit the soldier's ear, the Bard tells us,
and it wasn't like in the movie, no Clintwood showed up to save us,
no Serpico, Jesus caught one of the many Covids and stayed in bed.
It's the real Red Menace, rolling pearlharbors without end
nerves as wrecks, consciousness as tomorrow's peak oil,
Saturday Night Live, Sam Kinison's ghost goes, "Pyle!!!
Continue down your mistaken path." Ten hut.
The Animals are back to drain the fresh and virgin stem cell light
somehow on the continuum's tightwire the satyrs leapt over Man
and merged with machines, laughing missing links
all that's left is the bardo now, halas and release
from material things and materialists and atoms dressed as Santa.
False color X-ray image in the XMM-Newton wide-field survey in the COSMOS field.
(Image by NASA) Details DMCA
I dunno. I'm an old man. I've been old since childhood.
I've watched them go from camera obscura,
dry riverbeds to the parallax views of lucid dreams,
forgotten in the studio work they do, tinkle bells and dog whistles
a ghost in my own life, suspended as by astral hoodoo, seeing all
and seeing nada, nada, nada in the well-lit place of Papa's suffering.
And now I hope to make my escape through the interstices
leaving behind the rotting world to the ancient fascists
who've dogged us since Eden, paying God back
for their heave-ho from Heaven by offering up
to Eve the Carnal Knowledge apple tree surprise
and sealing our collective Doom -- Boom!
Another dream de-furred.
