Super-luminol gales of a cocktail concoction in human glass is ever at the ready to party, to then figure things out in Suburbia. And always par for the course. We become supra-human as someone crying germ-a-phobe! in a crowded theater, or someone else who is germane on principle. Those early years were telling it slant, sometimes all CAPS, sometimes underscored for emphasis like the title of a novel. I have to ask you: Who is that other, that third Third Reich who always stands beside you there dispiriting the ghosts whose saddles lie prone at the wishing well’s base, whose romantic trigger is a postmodern fiction, a fragment of self perpetuated by language? I am wishing that his or her insane crazy apples are the toast of Bulgaria; that their happy day lunch at Comeuppance Café on the Circle near Medford is positively charged—a Protean neon that glistens in winter. In summer I’m a tee shirt hung on a clothesline. I am out to dry, in some instances precluded by sculpture and seminal texts. As a career choice I am smelling of wood smoke. I was cooking last night at the 4th of July bar bbq. The one where we met on LSD so long ago, WD40 greasing our tongues, our palms hungry for petrol that’s raunchy raunchy medicine. You and me huddled together for five brief infinite minutes as though speed dating our way into an all hipster lifestyle seemed too fantastic a dream to possibly hope for. We had a fine selection of choice Kobi beefsteaks. And Clorox is what I still smell like after doing the laundry this morning. Let me kiss yr SMS. Let me hold yr RSS feed against the roof of my mouth. On the chapped lips of my poem you gather yr petals one by one, dropping only the slightest of hints you are real, that you originate somewhere in reality. The real world is never the most real thing to you. We have beds that we lie down in and drown in, choked up on glory in the suburbs—this way to Cheops or the Lenscrafter’s on Highway 200. An ‘06 Chevy Suburban is a mobile pueblo. Or a child’s hypnotic Moebius Strip defined by the stare of Da Vinci’s Madonna. The pueblo is modern and free hanging in the face of pop music. It is legally registered in my name in name only. For the purposes of this poem it drives off the road in 2010 in my mind and smashes into a Rooms-To-Go across from the Lenscrafter’s where I generated lenses that qualify as work. My open door is a joke I wish everyone would get. Pax or pox to you, Super Mario Brothers and yr intransitive state. I remember we talked about this, the games we play as young adults growing more and more sophisticated. Our participation in these esoteric waves of existence rituals and post postmodern games: libido vs lovers, risk vs value, chance vs the alphabet, the violin sheet music of a sure thing vs the boiled feet and potato smell of yr mother’s beet and macaroni salad (which you sd would remind me so much of my years in my father and mother’s cellar studying the subway system in order to achieve fiscal dominance and save moolah for college). An electric boy of 12, incandescent with my stash of Marvel Comics and tubes of glue (this is not a confession, Officer Reinhold. This is a bio of a schizoid boy, of someone clever that I cleverly dug up, hallucinating my life in gritty urban subculture). I memorized my lines. I committed shock therapy. I was Science Officer Spock using my ability to mind meld on a Klingon (or was it a Romulan?) unable to fully connect with those cute little tribbles or any other insentient alien lifeform I encountered in the emptiness of space. In the emptiness of space I discovered the skill of elision and evasion. While back here on Earth I studied the dangerous art and science of criminal detection as practiced by Sherlock Holmes. His use of opium as a mind-altering drug in order to solve crimes seemed bizarre and off-putting, entrenched as it was, deep in the high Victorian era, where he would sit and cogitate often for weeks, lost in his rooms at 221b Baker Street, his interest in the occult, much like my own, a hapless escapism. And then you appeared drizzling honey on the tastiest Coleslaw of words I’d ever experienced. Some quote you read on the internet or some piece of text you scrabbled after after reading it in some book about Postmodern Culture. Tan Lin’s Seven Controlled Vocabularies and Obituary 2004 The Joy of Cooking [Airport Novel Musical Poem Painting Film Photo Hallucination Landscape] A Book of Meta Data [Standards] Downloaded, Recipes, with Photographs From a Flea Market for instance. Even as you stood, once upon a time, at the top of my cellar stairs, shade comingling with decadent daylight, yr fierce demeanor showed all over yr face, lit with rays of light from a window at eye level. The light in yr eyes, and sometimes you yourself, were just a split infinitive or the one little bit of irony I asked for and never really needed or felt I deserved in my life. And bending down to pick up a leaflet fallen from my windshield, I asked you what would happen if I just decided to go there. No one ever could control the World though it lay like a handsome dog at their feet sleeping thru the flash and din of that boisterous New Years’ Eve bash at the turn of the new millennium. No crash occurred. Apocalypse averted. And this after reading the menu at Sir Lancelot’s Fine Dining & Camelot Experience: a tavern trapped in a fawn’s wild eye, replayed in a digital realm. You dreamed once you’d subverted yr group therapy group, aloud in the subconscious flicker of a schoolyard where anyone could hear it. The schoolyard you dreamed of (so taboo) you called the Outback for Ninnies. You sd no one controls the head if you know what I mean and we all knew what you meant when you added: if you all get my drift. You were speaking in tongues or in slang and that was a dish we all liked to lick, hoping to hallucinate: jobs, lovers, poems, children, lives of the poets always a tear jerk away from the norm. It was yr poem, that fawn of the public record, which seemed most of the time a car out of control, dashing headlong into the young jacaranda tree outside of Skidmore’s Printing and Copies. You sd it was a poem that you lived more than a poem that you wrote down on paper. Back then it was 1977 and the tree I speak of was a grapefruit tree and the silence of just before dawn was a squirrel or white tail deer paralyzed in yr head lights, blocking out all logic, frustrated in the screech of yr foot hitting the defective brake pedal, which pursues (as it always does and did) jug jug to dirty ears, after which yr sable eyes and evergreen skin took miles to prepare, once more, for yr long night awash in the degradation of the System. The System which is and causes its own cause célèbre. What shattered that night was Ben Hur in the public psychotic episode starring Mel Gibson and the Chipmunks from Sesame Street. As I sd, I sd I love you there and you passed me doing 90 mph. What is the meaning of god or love if a man ignores his own trajectory thru clouds, thru traumatic bedrock, while somebody else gets up and line dances after three fingers of scotch like a good public official? At the time of yr accident I breathed in Ralph Wiggim nickels and dimes hoping to recant my epic about f-stops, but got a punchline you’d written as a gesture of yr sincerity in exchange instead.