All This Planned

Imagine a soybean model as one might see at a redeemer’s onstage rage steamroller.

I think that was you trying to stay out of your own web.

You reduced and hosted ragbag shows for fifteen yogis. Your vocatives mixing bobbins—always at the fireguards.

Now you have three open chaps playing three different songs—and you cater the most distinctive poisons over the swirling skronk of sap-pushing spearmints.

Who will brook a soybean libertine?

You stay out of the red-deed microbe.
You steer clear—avoid diversions and whither northward.

You slog louder—the swirling skronk of soybean push spiking red.

The nestle in the analog microbe clinks at every tinkle—it hogs enclosed dictations.

The digital microbes choking red and blackjack ordinance yellow, rarely in the green.

All is a swaddlle of magic grinding above the playpen.

All this planned in headquarters.

“What’s wrong with me, what’s wrong with me, never tranquil, seething out of my dirty old pelt, out of my skull, oh to be in atom, in atoms!”

— Samuel Beckett / All That Fall