addled spotlight tour

ain’t no wind bearing the word or the next big thing. i’m one to keep the substances keeping out, then add—be made to heel. all exaggeration and no aggravation!

more core centuries of mistaken indexed identities. you’re someone who appreciates walking under a ladder while passing out religious tracts. east nyc picnic posses heading out on cathedral trips.

then you see me and say: you’re not a skeleton. life is full of misgivings and misinterpretations. they say you gotta hold on. ¡agitador, aguántate!

how is it that at my local cuban restaurant they’ve got cargo guayaberas for sale. made in china — not made in cuba anymore.

these are nice pastel guayaberas, you say, festooned along the word jambs in boss and pomegranate pink. and if you’re traditional, a tad conservative, i got em in white as well. is all well?

you trench another tweak to teak in your long-shadowed solitude, as opposed to short-sleeved sweet plantain style. maybe i should ask around: what masks did you wear on those humid nursemaid nights when a little more subtropical formality was required? were you wearing a long solitude gusano guayabera? or sticking with the short-leash lend lease one?

so why’d the british get invoked, you say. what’s it to them? what’s it to you?

these guayaberas at my local joint are covered in clear policy bagtags that read: MOJITO COLLECTION Made in Chengdu, China. RN 109783.

i’m slooped and sloped, in the gambling garments of crisis-less cuban missiles, bridled and brinkless.

i say — i’m lowercase swinging. i aint got the hope of the pit. i’m swinging on the pendulum. i’m a lateral equilateral and i mimicked this mask fug from a server that served me a decade or so ago. in every wave a joint without juncture. in every wave a goodbye. in every goodbye a tsunami.

un maldito maremoto, you say. you’re cursed!

in every idol an absent father — in every father, honey from an addled spotlight tour…

What I’m Reading:

There’s terror when a basic animal need isn’t met. At first you fear death, then a worse thing happens – you fear life. You no longer want your life, not on these terms. When I don’t sleep and don’t sleep and don’t sleep, I don’t want my life; neither do I have in me the propulsion (courage? know-how?) to take it. So I have to endure my life when it’s unendurable, and this is an impasse.

— Samantha Harvey / The Shapeless Unease: A Year of Not Sleeping