Jump-Cut Check-Ins

Check me out—
Check me in…

In the montage I ascend from the dashboard—
depart on the window dressed of spaniels—
and like the nude descending the staircase

I’m aggrieved.

For I know not where the primordial matter in the skin sack I’m in intends to go.

My watchword is wrecker—I’m a kickback president of threats.

There is a poet in my pocket that only manages: humbug! amidst the glossolalia.

I have an earwig in a sachet that transmits
opioid messages of dis-illusion.

I am not my vertigo—I intone in my inclination.

I’m the slacker that darkens as I upend—the king of stalemate bequests!

There are eddies in the rivulets that course thru my coagulated blood.

I am a godson among the startled—and humming a turd-tune I know . . .

Violin-leaves tar at the wings—
Dew-drug sinners eat garnet stopgaps—
There be rodent chocolates in the chinaberry cabinet—and three clear tools of destruction.

(I intend to use)

Come.
Appease.

What I’m Reading:

I didn’t think a lot about death, but I was getting ready to. I understood that death was coming and that all my current preoccupations were kind of naïve; I still operated as if I could win somehow. Not the vast and total winning I had hoped for in the previous decades, but a last chance to get it together before winter came, my final season.

— Miranda July / All Fours