Monologue Arpeggiator (Help me)

Fade In.

Above the blinding flats of white screen reveries:

I’m flying over anonymous calamities with a courageous lack of temerity—then falling again. I plunge with celerity. A godwit plummet after 25,000 miles.

Think of the honeycombs of catacombs beneath us as we plant our feet on land again. There are rows—or rose and chaplets—along the banks of empire. So may tin-roofed huts we barely see the banks of barley spreading out to the horizon.

I rarely move once on land. But now we walk hundreds of miles—semibreves aloft in a hemidemisemiquaver aleatoric vortex—but it’s really just across the street, yet the zoetropic images flicking about in my vision are testament to the rustication of my senses. I give you abruptly-shaped children in sharp relief from the rheumy discharges of my cerebrum.

If dogma concerns you, I’d look elsewhere. I’d look for monologue arpeggiators . . .

Meanwhile, someone in this world right now is thinking a righteous thought—others are concerned with pimples in the foregrounded glass, while the memeflow streams splenetic in the background!

While the rest of us feed the catastrophe—
Mandolins exhort electric car homilies—
With righteous vespers at half-past the hour.

Cut To Black.

What I’m Reading:

“. . . By April, I was the clerk periscopic,
behind the desk of a welfare hotel, where a man hollering I love God
plunged from the fifth floor . . .”

— Martín Espada / “My Twenty-Fifth Year Amazed the Astrologers” / Imagine the Angels of Bread