I woke up to a perigean spring.

The waves were washing right up Market Street

and bunching at the ankles of the drunken wrecks

and the beautiful elites,

and everyone in town was walking backwards

holding mirrors up in front of their faces,

retreating into the advancing landscape

of this world and other virtual spaces.

 
 (Ooowee! They’re after me!

 My brain stem is after them!)
 


We’re wandering in a jungle
of our own design.

We’re limping in a circle,
believing it’s a line.
 


I am a man of numbers:
(There’s something flying over:)

my brain is on my sleeve,
(the sun gives us a wink.)

but there are some hard limits
(The shadow on the landscape)

to what this old hammer could achieve.
(moves faster than you’d think.)


In earliest memory,

riding on an elephant:

feel those big, bony shoulders cranking sad and slow,

and there are way too many balloons

and too many faces, all festering,

fucking festering with joy.
All those footprints,

all those footprints in the mud!



 Daddy, give me your hand to hold,

 I think I’m growing old.

Mama, feather-dust my room,

 I’ll be coming home soon.