Stumped at the podium,
the drag line, the soup kitchen,
I wandered looking for my name.
I found it in burnt metal
at the back of a grocery store.
I propped it up on favorite icicles.
It fucked around with a readership.

Powdered memory, the king of a bucket of leaves.
Worshiped in refractory back circuits.
The prey of certain seeking conduits.
An armed looker making armed confessions,
the strength of his station
a portable rift that goes fishing.

Furs and fiery dosed coffee,
stacked against the thousand walls'
cartons of empty breakfast.
Taking another name,
with a bid-hand into the air,
I'll have that one, it's mine,
I will sear its framework
into these many minds.

Sludge and fist
and the joy of mercury
a ton factory for hollow brains
the holiness of slain dragons
consciousness captive to the host
lost in his loves and smash-ups
having out-run his mirror and remained

I will do away with this fossil nutbag
delicately for bronze-projected millennia
while he eats my cake helmet
and wraps my feet in seaweed
from his wet mineral drawer
pulling tags and salespeople aside
to make way to my heart

with a stretched letter of zero
a corked anatomy plug sheet
a monstrous cash flow involvement
hewing to the national murder
of the weak and hysterical
because their punishment
suits their central casting
and what central casting has selected
let nobody separate from destiny
let nobody unravel what destiny has afforded
let nobody ask and then what