Song
of the Something
It’s
Their Fault!
Rub
past flack mind charms, in tingling silence
Inside
outer skins hard selves twangle gravity
as
steep-side rut collisions go millions of dark miles
A
hopping future mingles inside a black swarm
its
softened-coonskin leather glove stirs your eyes
as
star-lined connectors multiply firy sparkles
Run
as fast as you dream to let the harshness in
as
you harbor fixations in solid innertubes of false solitude
that
protrude in oddments of immersive fleek sameness
Public
computer throughputs and psychic gag collectives
will
comport pre-sportive snorts of wisdom sooner or later
to
extol your weather joneses through limped-shut eyes
Interval wind farms scramble sentient technology
as snake innards hydrate fixatives in false privacy
too close to arithmetic grove galaxies. Now, it’s your fault
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