So some of these establish this kind of hallucinatory space
that it seems to be reflective of the moment in which I
was writing these in.
This is more or less completed around the year 2016.
"Or Why the Assembly Disbanded as Before."
Hosanna in the borderline cinder warehouse, as much applause as
possible to collapse inside an ambulance now that
conveys the intravenous bags and bottle holder.
27 stones from here to the Idlewild to the gun fields.
It's a place you find automation.
It's a place you find automaton nurses who
labor in gray-green subterfuge in all over stripes.
A round of punches to the lower jaw for my part in the main.
So I get it now, I'm the chosen one for reassignment.
Face so altered as to beguile.
This is enemy-convenient, a purview
suitable to very new cosmetic methods.
Question is, admin diazepam and other hydro--
excuse me.
Question is, the admin diazepam and other hypodermics, where
they counter active or now consistent with enough cases
as to compel canvassers to anticipate first signs of panic
sleepwalker antecedents?
The tables in upright position, crushed ice out of open air,
conditioned ward redolent of superstores and tattoo shops.
Or was it morphine sulfate and protocols
applied to disable the congenital twins?
Here's the ward news.
To junk-science prizes, wax-candy lips
intone a flawless if always accented sentence.
The kind of talking from another world,
where my mother was Marlo Thomas and there
were rival techniques, contributed
to the celebrity of my seven-sided disappearance.
Or was it all my enuresis when I doubled in size, as
from her pocketbook, adorable, but already diminishing?