I could not sleep and so I explained
it’s part agony,
it’s part hard-on,
it’s the dull buzzers from next year,
it’s the choking miasma of
unconcoctioned aftershocks
headfully hustling where
dancing girls fear to tick,
it’s Ronald Reagan grinning like a
dust storm under
rented Chevrolets driven on
voided alleys and
computerized fields,
it’s partly the undiscovered farm of
roosters and sclerotic twitches hovering in
Major League Baseball’s Maginot Line,
it’s a semiotic legal proceeding where
meaningless jaw-filling acronyms melt in
asemic soup,
it’s a fistfight outside a secret nightclub in my
kitchen where a parade of inconsonance
suppurates and licks itself with smears of
government smut,
it’s a cynical children’s dictionary preaching
slavery and concubinery and halitosis and
bruise blood and Bukowskian bible verses,
it’s the inert swish of empty gravity
porously slamming half-read greeting cards.
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I don’t want to be the first to comment on this one. But if I must, I must. Not eating or drinking after 8 p.m. might be the answer.
But it might not. at any moment the explanation might leap out. you have no leg to stand on except the 3rd leg. the 3rd eye blinks, the 3rd rail twists around and zaps you like a plumbers snake. you appreciate these things later, you make good fodder out of them. Mmmmm, fodder.