Sunday, February 19, 2012


Blood zero isn't just a color, but a language, a little bit
like a yell, wrought in prolonged exposure to the
television set. Science, in distilling the blister,
has at last stumbled upon something perpetually
spooky. Though it's just another isolated district
that's emerged, this time, gawk: like your eyebrows are on Viagra.
Like you're staring at graffiti on the mirror.
Like you're in the middle of some sort of cinematic fusion,
at the movies. Then, faint: because you're at
our latest depression theme park gawking
at the love child of several discordant vortexes. On board
a tiny UFO cruising along streets of bones.
Scavenging through our factories (wouldn't take the
alien pilots long to discover an abandoned smelly vest,
to figure out extreme human behavior
in a twinge of Axe body spray. Free will:
the natural environment for mechanical parts. At home
in the cheesecake control center.) Wind-rust tilting
the animatronic bat. Canting … swerving … landing
and skidding like a peddle, once, twice – no,
FIVE OR SIX TIMES – in the park's bird feeder.

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