Seven seconds left, every literate
lite blazing deliberate unflinching
union over the cable mind modem. Rinse,
wash, repeat: War, a hatchery
for injustice, a circus madrigal played out
in lights above the Midway- but

there is nothing
silly, nothing cynical about this
affect. It is impressions
you saw but doesn’t care what
you think or no fair bawling
quasi-imperialist bullshit, nomian slime
pulsing in the delightful vacuum-
screws or time or Jack London, the blind sea

captain barricaded in his cabin on second wave cable. What
is woman? he asks- mirthless, strident. Cabal of Naked
Vomiting Self in Ocean. Blue. Or say: letter woman self??
But there are- there we are- of, from, derivative
functions of sex, Oliver Cromwell lifting his scrotum
from the bath -and- heaving ragged breaths
of preconscious thanksgiving, exults
of emancipated testicles. And so

on: the top hats’ invidious
children of the One Path “find themselves”- glad-handled
unconscious, but otherwise
in much the same stricture- along the frantic twitch
of tensive limb, their wretching revealed festered aloft
in an open skin. I cannot find you in any plane

less ‘this presence,’ less what exists in digital
prison: no pain but 10 pixilated yards, rummied
thoughts of Lambeau immortals: pixilated blood spat
in pixilated triumph over a leprechaun’s zany hair piece.
Petition pixilated Pixar for permission
to lock lips with a searing light fixture.
Now lacey leader say, Hungry like Wolf... in Paris,
in satin! after involuntary lumpen spring of repeatedly
ill-advised rust brim launderings (and this means you,
Madame Secretary), is now not possible (!) to pose
questions like Barbie lurching bra-less, soulless
after dance, or lunge wonder into
regarding problem of soul. Is no

soul mean? and -as is- no clever letter
meaning- just man say, Hasit? Wazzit? Stab!! just words,
just caesars and careful seasons- but then, stab
and stab and sever!
until the other
thrashes still.