“Corpuscle”
Dial home, touch-tone phone.
Ringing ring, all alone.
Phonograph, grooving need,
il·lic·it tracks and marks doth bleed.
Scratch the itch,
manic twitch.
Sigh.
Approaching the event horizon,
constitutes a loss of self,
and entails complete consciousness of that loss.
At least, theoretically.
Two places at that same,
time.
Dope rhyme.
Committed,
crime.
Put it in here,
or maybe there.
Between your hammertoes,
crooks of elbows.
Snort it up your nose,
if you seek liberation;
overdose.
Cut it with formula,
supermarkets warn you.
Placed in the case up front.
Publicly shamed,
for habitual leisure.
Stemming the tide,
stealing Tide,
to pay for highs.
Zayres zombies,
become couch cushions,
sprawled across the soiled seats of the Orange Line Transit Train.
Muttering in tongues,
whispering the secrets of the Tower of Babel.
The engineers that could save us,
but can’t save themselves.
Orange rinds, and coffee grounds,
garbage found.
Corpuscles combined,
trove of cells aligned,
to deliver the alchemists high.
Why?
The world offers only recriminations,
it will not explain itself to bags of rotting meat.
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