Chili leaks all over the seat,
failing to save itself
for a more opportune moment.
At times I’ll see that incontinence
and laugh, comforted
by my own relative regularity.
But when the cowbell strikes 10PM
and you’re losing your marbles
at a steady rate, none of these things
matter anymore. All you can do is
gesture wildly at the skies
with the hope of retrieving
that golden beacon of self-doubt
from the prickly impersonator of human emotion.
He’s been around a long time,
a real long time (if you want to get technical).
His name is inconsequential, for
one must only conjure his essence
to perpetuate his unholy regime.
Dig the grooves–
fixate raw emotion;
orange teleprompters stimulate senses,
falling down through the psyche.
Pen failings, orangeness
essential in the plunge
to crusty bits of exploded massacres
amongst the windfalls of intoxicating merriment
all boiled down to one endeavor
at one single point in time,
hopscotching on the lines of external graphics.
Internalized choosing–who’s choosing?
Everyone’s choosing! How are we to progress,
when we always hark back to the past
and fling names, earthbound, flattening.
Not in the air, not in a museum.
I really wish I could use my arms.
Scratching my head on the walls just won’t cut it.