Leaving the hospital, she said:

“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”

Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.

“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”

I thought so. Most of the meat

Loaf I digested resembled

My eighth-grade class.

At least.

Then.

But since then, I’ve lumped all those familiar faces

Into a homogenous pudding

Bland and familiar.

Not one face stands out anymore.

What entrée do I resemble?

I asked her.

“Corned beef....” she replied

without

hesitation.

I wouldn’t worry about it too much there is always because.

Limited shivering, caliper brakes and

Seeing the brink as failure is, well, a failure of imagination, isn’t it?

Marred poisonous dash, you can’t get around it. You can take that bend till it breaks

off at the between, of making naked circles naked once they are in place.

The storm means cuticles, cut-rate merchandise. And in one hand you can wish

while you salivate in the other.

I wouldn’t worry too much, we always land. Will it be faithful to the original flight?

Or be a bad re-enactment? Every pilot rehearses their routine.

But there is always a place to land.

Axial divergence, aerial definition.    The plane always knows

Which direction to fly.  It just doesn’t know when to

land.

Please confirm here that console is the radio playing neutral business in

The away game of fissures and gnats and all that AND NOW IT IS A REQUIEM

Turning out the past dues like a paste described them

Suffer not the bring let them bray

No hope is for billionaires no one has a double take to spare

Not one dime all is for the gilded and their fiber optic barons

Gilding soup and costs for their flagrant virtual lenses

It is better head be kept in helium banket for a curse

Don’t know don’t follow don’t care the sound

Bends that unnoun following tout sweet

Drop the baton everyone knows you’re not conducting

The orchestra is abandoning the stage

Manner bored and docket shaped unrelenting

Dispensation of toiled rage and skin rashes

Make the circulation warm and mischievous.

There is no bereft. Only the sorrow of lungs.

There there tyrant there. Hold your head in

Vital splays, warmed torniquet and vowel knots.

Know the diaspora is inevitable as

The race begins to dismantle. But sob at least.