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indigo snake in the orgone box
 
the action movie dragon clamped its filmreel teeth
on the tail of the sidewalk treadmill
where we spent our lives in the rustling money-filled hat
of an ignored street musician singing like a punch-drunk angel
 
sof rivulets of chalk-blue light 
carved the city starting in the bedroom mirrors 
of its citizens & the mysterious powder left in their eyes
 
the life of your miniature self is as follows:
1:27 am:  a gallon of engine oil falls from the sagging ceiling,     
          soaking you in bed
9:31 pm:  an angry fetus curls up inside your computer, 
          fogging the screen 
4:44 pm:  a parking meter's head explodes with worms 
          when you wind it too far
87:846 am:  the mirrors cease to reflect your actions
 
moments of overcrowded solitudes
floating out past the other swimmers in a public pool
staring at the chlorinated horizon, utterly unknown
or waking up without any possessions
not owning even your body or the ache in its overextended retinas
or waking from narcolepsy in a restaurant of spray-painted shadows
trying to melt the china-handed waitress with your stare
the gentle claws of xanax valium & prozac 
landing on your shoulders like pet birds
and all this you will accept
8 more retail hours,
then into the mouths of the internet
into the backwards eye of the tv
into you 
into me
as infrasonic prophets rage in closed subways
and the taste of metal invades your lunchbreak sandwich 
the uprooted eyelashes of your guardian angel drift down
through the stunned venusian pink of the skylight
& are scattered on the immaculate freshly mowed rug 
by the white noise drawn by all your antennas 
on which rust spots have suddenly appeared
 
it's time again to draw your self-portrait in cheese whiz
on the overpopulated front page of the newspaper
 
if there's even one left who loves you helplessly
go to them now.

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