Memo to Memorama

Apropos of nothing . . . As ceilings evolved from feral rafters into beloved Victorian concatenations, a nascent pet-forest economy arose on the carts of so-called “pulpy curiosity pools involving hitmen.” We will explore the linens they slept upon and the gnarled toes of these itinerant offal splattermen.

I will then grift you an overcoat made of castor beanlets in a blanket.

Subsequently, president-New Wheel SlipperyMan Deep Unthinker—a pioneer of thee queerest directives, and wearing “unclassifiable fleshiness” unfolds in a torrent of psoriatic folds and crepey skins. He feathers abortive invectives at squelching tires in an impenetrably viscous fog. 

He speaks in fragmentary sentences, mired in orange spread, and plays with his tiny pens of eviscerating fraudulence. 

You wear your Midday Mask as the rats run rampant through the works.

Jack the Ripper Day is thee new national holiday—so have a bloody pleasant vacation from reason and sanity.

Time to travel cross country and across time to get thee head correct . . .

Goodbye!

What I’m Reading:

Poets should be concerned with how an empire makes us hate the people without papers. Who could be us, who are us, but temporarily less human because it is convenient for the jobs. The jobs are too important to stop the bombs that burn the  flesh of the children who were my face as a child, but I live here, with papers.

— Zaina Alsous / “To a Young Poet”