Sunday, January 3, 2016

CULTURE POP

I live my life like a pinball game:
     Radical!
     over a sheet of glass, and
     for the token
         loophole in the corner,
         which may or may not
           be a fat kid.
I utilize foraged goods to make change.
I purchase time in dimebags
use the backstock for reservation
bend the framework of waiting in line
so I’m prepped to slam the pegs from any angle.
But I pay to watch a ball fall through.
      Because “any” isn’t “all”
         it’s “ONE”
      to finesse that connection
      within rigid walls
      of mechanical obsession.
Like catching your reflection
   in a bubble,
     iridescent
and it busts on your form,
too strict for floating bonds to withstand.

                       pop.

when strawberries broke
              out in hivemind
              vaccinations and glitterbombs
   could heal the world,
       momentarily.
Quickest way to shift perspective?
Throw some glitter on it.
Seems to be more effective
   than facepunch
   or thigh slice.
Will run more tests.
Cynicism levels have spiked
    in humorous spite.
Still plateaued over at
     yonder puzzle
           though . . .

You are            searching
raising my bottom lip over
back of head and come
up with “umbrella”?
fuck it, I’ll ride the rain.
waste not, wanting you.
Baby, our love is a pizza magnet!
     configured of two lukewarm calzones
     and a throne, upon which
     it appears neither
    Thug Queen nor
    King Jesus could
           rule alone.

Played and puffed, Sun
ups the ante, but
         broke the bluff
somewhere between bums in the night,
between asphalt, wall and dumpster
between the city itself
and within every wadded napkin
     reverberates sidewalk music lost
somewhere in translation
from bricks to mortar.
           Should I be worried about you?
Not in Boulder, nope.
89% bleached of even a glance at the world’s pain.
And yet here we are.

There is a ringing in everything,
maddening rot
poking out every chord
lopsides, and every child
leaves bemused,
fingering in pockets
torn receipts.
But I only shiver among
    constellations, under
Only freeze for a word,
and even then
           only for the
              portion of a
                  pivot.

Because when Michael Jackson turns
the world in a remix,
   Be-bop-o-phobia
   will finally comprehend
    the spiritual significance
     of porridge           and
                           peas.
and too hot will be the new just right.
and the outliers will be
  more like valence electrons
  and less like dryer lint.
              Right now,
we are the extra bits
picked up and
plucked off,      lumped
    together,   called
somethingcutelikeabunny
                       and tossed out.
But we are the accidental
  organizers of chaos.
We loop around,
          trade places,
              bargain spots in line
                 and burn through inspiration
                     like foodstamps
                        and
                            ganja.
We form functional bonds
     in patterns of
     figure eights and hopscotch
       through scatter and scram,
     self-editing stacks up
     and over like
     cheap liquor
        tossed back
        behind tongue and throat.
                           extra coat
                      to pretend we’ve
                         escaped the
                                cold.
The wretched wind
slams debris
into air blocks
at such high velocities that
they never leave.
As long as we keep
  smashing our direction into one another
  bridging purpose
                     will
  keep us together.
          Only no one goes anywhere.

Overheard a longshot laughing
turned out to be a close call.
Still, I don’t move.
I stand as witness
to Andrew’s Ether evaporating
and following fall.
I am the genius on the wall.


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