flu

Flu

These chronologically challenged fortune
cookies started life on my side
table. Covered my books, todo lists, tickets,
picks; bulged a drift against my lamp,

so in the evening nuclear
waste prophesies burned
citreous through the wraps,
milky as you’d like.

Telling my past and present.
Delicate pins of red sulk
in plasma like blown glass. The
origami doomsayers

spilled fast down
onto my carpet. At times
I’m delirious enough
to think them pretty

as white roses, or spare
stars, forgetting that reactor
core balled in
threatening meltdown.

I’ve had thoughts of you, S.Lee.
How these chemicals have been
on my skin, my clothes, inside me.
Where are my super powers motherfucker?

I have dipped an ashy toe
in plutonium fen. Drunk
it and expelled it.
Drawn some in a pale.

Yet I am raw as an old strop.
I have made razors sharp
as star limbs while I have
blurred into bokeh.

If I were not thinking this
I’d swear I’d become object
set here to drip as
salt lamps, stalactites. Inmates

are warming,
have talked to me,
told me jokes. I have
laughed like dragged

girders over the
blemished epoxy
of humour. Sort of gun point
laughs, elevator manners.

Atlas hatbox knows
very little of geography but a great
deal of the seasons,
and of storm formations.

Doesn’t know how talking
about the weather became a
faux pas. Believes it to be
the closest thing to real

magic after art, the relative strength of ants,
and a great cloche. Erhu is a dirty
old bastard. Wants me to pick it
poppies. I tell it it’s not the season.

Asks if I have any weed.
Orange MK II has noticed
my voice tuned down
an entire minor third.

B I believe.
Asks if I’m into drone.
Sometimes I say. This guy’s
alright says African

redwood hippopotamus.
And I wonder at his Brooklyn
accent, and absentee tail. I tell
him thanks. The ugly bowl

of pennies/misc. threatens blades
sometimes, but I’m not worried.
He’s mostly just pennies. Graduation
llama asks if I still write.

I am I say.
Now? As we speak
Champ. God’s honest.
But I must stop for a moment.

The pendulum clock
just peeled me
a ripper, gun cocked, and I have
drafted more neon globules

while I dragged my girders,
and I am entirely
out of tissues
again.

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