Poem
by 2045 I’ll start a revised SF Renaissance
with yuppie blood as muse
to exit a childhood of piers
I have heroin death fantasies in the bathtub
while the moon’s yelling
lapis allures and makes me itch
as I recall my dad
saying following the moon won’t take you nowhere
a colleague mentions schizophrenia
is noticeable by 25
I read cold milk
is the cure
or Kool Aid
6:02
the human race is coming to a stop
I am the first to go
full of scheme and cadence
and Visions of Cody who is me on Dexedrine
genius don’t care for made up words
but I should’ve taken my posts to the page
before selling them back to Facebook
there are always however many meanings already given
with millions of barcodes and not enough
sheep or pills to get the job done
I would like nice poems for Christmas
and Bible paper sans association
I’d like to have a watch overlooking the Bay
is it me or am I nostalgic?
how many ways are there to live that pay?
1
2
3
4
5
6 is experience paid for in death
and Hollywood is infatuated with it
do not take the 6AM bait and get out of bed
the academies will stifle language and sport short haircuts
things will go on like this for hours
when NY explodes
Eureka
Archimedes has his breasts on the seal
and a woman’s head is in Sacramento
watching pilgrim ships
sail down northern rivers
to a Republic rising again
with a breast-bearing bear
where maternity hotels foster leaders
not modeled after ones here
where females are included
in state Points of Interest
destinations motivated
by droughts lessening
with the quickness of a crop raid
aided by a map serving
38 million golden users
to which I Love You, California
plays no more.
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