splotch

the score and mail dictator
given to distraction and destruction
his personal colonial wrapper
on golden cigarettes
cork of bookworm
and mechanical writing—
automatic writing is so 1923—
a pedigree of tousled hair
wings and ear flaps
in the buttercup of his sustained limp
the announcement of a new disease—
the fraudulent picaresque perquisite—
supernatural and supine
arms akimbo lumberjack style
a life of conquest undone
by an upended strut
and a corn stalk husk
of a preambled
mailboxed splotch

What I’m Reading:

It’s August finally and no one knows that August isn’t really a month. It is one long day.

— Victoria Chang / “Untitled IX, 1982”